


In the Mood

by Once_Upon_A_Thyme



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Anal, Beautiful Bisexual Bucky Barnes, Blow Jobs, Bondage, Depression, Drunk Kissing, Eating Nothing But Potatoes for Days, Friends to Lovers, Great Depression, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Torture, Internalized Homophobia, Light BDSM, M/M, Oblivious Steve Rogers, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Rimming, Rough Kissing, Slow Burn, Slow Dancing, Spanking, Steve's Surprisingly Dirty Mouth, Suicidal Ideation, Way Too Much 1930s Slang, internalized ableism
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-17
Updated: 2018-12-16
Packaged: 2019-05-08 03:09:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 25
Words: 71,503
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14685204
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Once_Upon_A_Thyme/pseuds/Once_Upon_A_Thyme
Summary: Steve and Bucky try to make ends meet, while Steve increasingly grapples with his not-so-platonic desires and intense longing for Bucky's sweet ass (in his adorable poetic way, of course).





	1. Some Mistakes Aren’t Meant to be Taken Back

Bucky came into the kitchen just as Steve had finished grinding the coffee. In the early morning darkness, Steve sat at the table with his coat around his shoulders and a lamp on the table, penciling in the last couple of sketches before the weekly deadline. 

“D’you have to make such a godawful racket every morning?” Bucky rubbed the sleep out of his eyes as he dumped the ground coffee into the pot on the stove and turned on the gas with a few raspy clicks.

“It’s not my fault you decided to go out and get soused last night. Besides, is that the sort of thanks I get for making coffee?” 

“I told you I’d do it myself, didn’t I? You don’t even have to be up this early.” 

“Early to bed, early to rise.” Steve shuffled his papers into a stack before they got coffee stains on them. He didn’t want to have another repeat of last week—it had taken him days to redraw all of the ads that he had ruined. “Besides, I have to finish up these ads and send them in soon.” 

Bucky got two chipped mugs and set them on the counter, filling his half-full with a can of evaporated milk on the shelf and squinting at the empty sugar bowl. “What happened to the sugar? I thought we had at least a little left.” 

“I’m saving it.” 

“For what?” 

“Don’t you worry about it.” 

“Not everyone drinks their coffee black as dirt like you do.” Bucky dunked a piece of stale bread in the coffee and grimaced. 

“Fine, fine. It’s in the cabinet on the left. But only a little bit—I really am saving it.” 

Bucky reached up on his left and scooped some sugar into his cup. Then he clapped Steve on the shoulder, flashing a half-grin. There was whiskey on his stale breath when he leaned in, and Steve wondered if he was even sober yet. “Thanks, sweetheart. You’re a real peach.” 

Steve would have protested if he weren’t trying so hard not to cough. By the time Bucky left, there was enough light coming in from the small window above the sink for Steve to turn off the lamp. He threaded his hands around the handle of his mug, trying to keep them from trembling. He promised himself he’d finish penciling in the details, and then he’d walk down to the post office and mail them in on time. 

*****

When Bucky came home, bringing a sharp wind into the apartment, Steve was slumped over the kitchen table with his drawings scattered over the table and one in his lap. Bucky pulled his boots off and tossed them by the door, and went into the kitchen with his coat still on. He nudged Steve’s shoulder, and stooped to pick up the pencils that had fallen on the kitchen tile. 

“Steve? Hey, wake up. It’s almost suppertime.” 

Steve raised his head, his face flushed with a fever tint and his eyes glassy. He licked his cracked lips and pushed his hair that was damp with sweat off his forehead. “What time is it? You gotta get to work or you’ll be late.” 

“What’s with you? Don’t tell me you’re sick again. Steve, I told you not to push yourself. I could of gotten you a tonic days ago if I’d known.” 

“S’not a big deal. Supper’s just gonna be a little late, that’s all. I just gotta finish up these—” He bent over as coughs wracked his body, leaving him gasping for breath and shaking from chills. 

“Like hell you will.” Bucky took him by the shoulder and led him into the bedroom. “You get your scrawny ass in bed.” 

Bucky took off his coat and draped it over the blankets, and went into the kitchen to fix something to eat. Money was tight so close to payday, and with Steve a few days before his weekly paid him they didn’t have a penny to spare. He sighed, wishing for some nice hot chicken noodle soup like Steve’s ma had used to make when he was sick. Instead, he fixed up some cooked bread with some hot water and olive oil, making sure to mash the stale bread up good. Then he put the kettle on and made some of the tea he had gotten from Mrs. Chancy for helping till her garden, and when it was steeped, he scooped in a little honey that was almost crystallized at the bottom of the jar. 

When he came back into the bedroom, Steve was already nodding off. Bucky set the tea and the bowl of cooked bread on the bedside table to cool, folding up his long legs at the foot of the bed. Steve looked up and glanced at the cover of the book Bucky had brought to read. 

“Where’d you get that from, Buck? That’s the latest John Carter, ain’t it?” 

Bucky shrugged. “Don’t worry about it. Now hush up if you don’t want to listen to another one of those chintzy romance novels Mrs. Edwards was giving away after they got rained on.” 

Steve laid back on the pillows, content not to be getting an earful. After he ate as much as his stomach would take and drank the tea that was suspiciously sweet (he told Bucky to quit buying honey, but he never did), Steve dozed off to the sound of Bucky’s voice as steady as rain pattering at the window. 

*****

By the time Steve woke again, it was light out, and Bucky was gone. The bed was cold without him. Mrs. Chancy came in a couple times to check up on him in the evening before Bucky came home, no doubt charmed by Bucky’s saccharine smile. Steve slept most of the day, woken only by the pain in his chest that worsened with every rattling cough. His throat felt like he had swallowed sandpaper. 

Bucky came home earlier than usual, before the last of the light faded from the window that overlooked the fire escape. He came bustling in to the bedroom, shucking off his coat and dropping it on Steve’s lap. “How’re you feeling, Steve?” 

“A bit better.” His eyes fluttered open just as Bucky leaned close and set his wrist to his forehead. “I think I can sketch some more now. It’s awful dull just laying here.” 

“You’re burning up. You ain’t fooling nobody. Now, I didn’t move in here so I could watch you waste away, you hear? You’re ma would kill me if I did.” 

“That’s why you came?” Steve asked. His voice was barely a whisper. “To look after me for Ma?” 

Bucky looked back from the doorway. “Don’t be a sap. I came because I wanted to. I’m with ya till the end of the line, remember?” 

Steve watched through the doorway as Bucky went to the kitchen, rolling up his shirtsleeves. He had filled out since they were kids, and his shoulders rippled as he lifted the heavy cast iron pot his Ma had gotten at her wedding. Working at the docks for so long had helped turn him from the tall, knobby-kneed kid who had scrapped with Steve’s bullies in back alleys to the young man who was a YMCA welterweight boxing champion. Steve watched him make corn meal dumplings and broth, fingers itching for a pencil to draw in the perfect way he slicked his hair back and the sheen of sweat on his brow as he stood over the steaming pot and the broad contours of his muscles under his undershirt. 

Maybe Bucky was right—the fever was messing with his thoughts, making them spin out of control, creating a haze in his mind like he was bent on gin and tonic. When Bucky came in with bowls of soup and dumplings, Steve glanced away. He was sure that if he met his eyes that Bucky would see something on his face, would read him like the books he collected piled up under the bed. Bucky had always been able to see things in him that no one else could. 

Late that night, Steve woke to find the bed empty beside him. He rolled over, catching a glimpse of the fire escape through the window in the moonlight. There was a point of light that he almost mistook for a star, but then it winked out before flaring up again, and smoke blew up with the plumes of Bucky’s breath in the frigid air. Steve watched the tip of Bucky’s cigarette glow before burrowing back into the covers, shivering without the warmth of Bucky’s body pressed against him. 

*****

After a few days, Steve was well enough to sketch in bed, and after two weeks he was up and about the house, bundled up in his coat and the red knit scarf his ma had made for him as a kid. He would have walked to the post office, but Bucky mailed Steve’s sketches himself, saying that the whole reason he was sick in the first place was because he didn’t have the common sense not to go out without a proper coat in a snow-storm. 

Steve busied himself with the commissions for the weekly that had been building up. He was sitting up in the kitchen with his coat on and the quilt from the bed across his lap when Bucky came home from the docks one night, slamming the door behind him. 

“Supper’s on the stove,” Steve called. “If I’d known you were going to be this late, I would have kept the burner on for a bit.” 

“I know I’m late,” Bucky snapped. “You don’t have to nag about it like some damn housewife.” 

Steve set his sketchpad down and looked across the table to where Bucky had flung himself into a chair. “What’s the matter with you, Buck?” 

“Sorry.” The anger left Bucky’s voice, leaving it raw. “I didn’t mean it like that. It’s just… I got fired from the docks, and then I was late to a date with Maeve, and you know how she is. So now I’m without a job or a dame faster than you can blink.”

Steve thought to all the times Bucky had stayed just a minute longer to check Steve’s temperature or to fix him something to eat before he left for work. He bit his lip—he doubted an apology would do any good now. “Sounds like you had a rough day.” 

“You could say that.” Bucky fixed himself a plate of cold stewed cabbage and potatoes. “Say, you haven’t been saving the whiskey like you’ve been saving the sugar, have you? I ain’t got a penny in my pockets, but I’ll be damned if I go to bed sober tonight.” 

Steve sighed. “I suppose I could find some.” He went to the bedroom and pulled out a half-empty bottle of malt whiskey they had bought after his Ma’s funeral. He pushed the thought away and brought the bottle to the table. 

“You mean you’ve had that thing the whole time, and I’ve been drinking chintzy gin mill booze?” Bucky raised an eyebrow and took two glasses from the cabinet. 

“Knowing you, it would have been gone in a week, you rummy sap.” 

Bucky gave a low laugh and worked the top off the bottle, pouring a good measure into each cup. He winked, and raised a glass. “Ah, come on. You know you want some. With booze this swell, who needs dames or dough?” 

“Alright, Buck. But just a glass.” 

*****

Just a glass steadily became nearly the whole bottle as the night wore on. Bucky sat on the table with his feet propped up on the back of his chair, his face flushed in the lamp light and his disheveled hair falling his eyes without being slicked back by its usual pomade. His eyes gleamed like the stars that were always hidden behind the city’s light. Bucky drained the rest of his glass and set it down with a clatter on the kitchen table. 

“So I says to him, ‘Johnny, if that quiff’s a dame then I’m a monkey’s uncle.’” Bucky laughed loud, and Steve put a hand over his mouth. 

“Shh, you’ll wake the neighbors. Dry up, will you?” His hand lingered on Bucky’s mouth, and he swiped the pad of his thumb across Bucky’s bottom lip where the skin had just healed from a scuffle that had broken out an alley a few days ago. “You gotta be more careful, Buck. It’s like you’re just asking for trouble these days."

Bucky’s eyes were wide as Steve tilted Bucky’s head closer to the lamp to see the faded bruise across his eye. Steve was sitting on table next to Bucky, an empty glass next to him. He had drank more than he should have, and he was half under, close enough to smell the whiskey on Bucky’s breath. 

“That’s my line,” Bucky said. 

Steve let his hand fall, resting it on Bucky’s knee. Then he was even closer, like a moth drawn to Bucky’s flame, drawn to his sticky-honey smile. Their lips met, and the whiskey tasted even better on Bucky’s lips, and Steve was drowning in Bucky’s heat. Then, through the muddled haze, the realization of what they were doing doused him like bucket of ice water, and Steve pulled back. 

Bucky swallowed hard, and he didn’t speak. He just looked at Steve, eyes wide and pulse hammering at his throat. And Steve wished that there was more whiskey, because he didn’t want to remember this moment. He didn’t want to think about what was running though Bucky’s mind—he didn’t want to remember how soft Bucky’s lips were, or any of the other sick thoughts that the whiskey had loosened up. It wasn’t like him to lose control, but Bucky had always been his weakness. He’d always been soft when it came to him. 

“I just slipped,” Steve said. “That’s all. I’d better get to bed, s’getting late.” 

Bucky nodded. “I suppose so.” 

That night, Steve tried as hard as he could not touch Bucky, curling up on the edge of their small bed and shivering in the cold, praying that all of these perverted thoughts would go away with the whiskey. He wasn’t sure that they would. He wasn’t sure he wanted them to.


	2. Chiaroscuro

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky goes searching for a job and some trouble--he finds both. Tempers start to flare as the stress of Bucky's new job builds, and Steve finally puts his foot down.

In the morning, Bucky acted as if he hadn’t remembered anything strange. Steve knew that Bucky held his alcohol better than he did, but he wasn’t going to pry. It was probably for the best to forget it had ever happened. That way they could just go on living their lives as normal. But Steve knew that even if Bucky forgot, he couldn’t. There was something special about Bucky, the way just the sight of him lit Steve up like firecrackers on the Fourth of July. But Steve told himself that it was just the liquor that had burned a fire in his belly that night, just the whiskey that had left him hot and wanting. He’d never been very good at lying. 

For a while, Bucky sat inside the house, finishing the John Carter novel and then reading it over again. He queued for jobs and came back frustrated and foot-sore at the end of the day. After a week, Steve learned not to ask if he had found one yet. Bucky went out in the morning and came back in the evening, and beyond that was only speculation. But sometimes, he would spend a whole day at the house, catching up on laundry and tidying the house up and sitting on the threadbare couch watching Steve draw. There wasn’t any more food on the table because of it, but Steve found that he liked the company. It felt like when they were kids and Bucky was a constant presence in the home, always underfoot as Steve’s ma cooked supper, always around to break the quiet dullness of things. 

Then one day, Bucky came sweeping in, not even bothering to take off his boots before bursting into the tiny kitchen where Steve was at the table working. His scarf spilled over his shoulders, and his hair was wild from the wind. Everything about Bucky was untamed, although he tried to hide it behind his cool demeanor and slicked-back hair. Bucky was a real live wire—Steve knew why all the girls fell for his charms, his restless energy. Having Bucky near was like having your own sun in your coat pocket. 

Bucky flashed a wide grin, not the sly half-smirk that he used to impress the girls at the dancing hall. “Guess what, Stevie?” 

“You won the lottery?” Steve said wryly. 

“Close enough. I got a job at the radio factory downtown, making coils and whatnot. It may not pay a whole lot, but it’s another steady wage.” 

“That’s swell, Buck.” 

Bucky glanced down at him, brow pinching. “Something wrong?” 

“No, nothing. I’m glad, honest.” 

Bucky crossed his arms. “Level with me, Steve. Something’s the matter. You sick again?” 

“No, I’m fine. It’s just work. The deadline’s coming up again, and I can’t afford to miss it.” 

“If that’s all, then.” Bucky leaned over to look at Steve’s sketches. Steve shuffled them back into a pile before Bucky saw the sketches that Steve had made of him. He had spent too many hours drawing Bucky instead of working, but he couldn’t resist catching the perfect line of his jaw or the way Bucky smiled when he thought no one was looking. Steve toyed with the edges of one of the pages, thinking about burning them up when Bucky was gone, but he know he’d never have the heart to destroy his work like that. His best work, no less. But sketches of Bucky didn’t pay, and the ads did. 

“It sure will be nice to have something to eat ‘sides bread and pasta,” Steve said. 

“Say, if I save up a little and get some beef, you think you can whip up some of your ma’s shepherd pie?” 

“Sure thing, Buck.” Steve laughed as Bucky pulled him out of the chair, dancing around the apartment in leaps and bounds. He hadn’t seen him this excited since they had gone out dancing, but with Steve being sick and Bucky busy working as many shifts he could, they hadn’t gone to the dance hall for a while. 

“Maybe now we can finally get us a wireless,” Bucky said. “Hell, we may not even need to go to the dancing hall unless it’s for picking up dames.” 

“To hear you talk, we’ll soon be richer than Roosevelt himself.” Steve laughed. “Ah, don’t let me spoil your fun. I’m just tired, is all. I’m real glad you found a job, Buck.”  
Bucky clapped him on the shoulder. “So am I, pal. So am I.” 

*****

Bucky was right—the extra paycheck eased the burden on Steve’s shoulders that he didn’t know he was carrying. Now that having food on the table didn’t depend solely on how many sketches he turned out for the weekly, he found his enjoyment coming back to him. His pencil flowed better, his strokes were cleaner, and he even let himself draw for leisure every once in a while. It was easy when Bucky was his muse, when he could close his eyes and see every contour and hard angle of his body, the brightness of his smile.

He knew he should stop, but he couldn’t. Not when Bucky was so beautiful, his face steeped in shadow and lamplight, his pale eyes sparking. It was so lovely in charcoal, and every day Steve’s hands were smudged with charcoal from the time he spent trying to coax life into the page, trying to bottle up all his wants and desires onto the page. It never worked—he could never perfectly capture Bucky’s vitality, the special something about him that made thrills shoot down Steve’s spine. 

Although an extra paycheck made things easier, Steve wasn’t sure he liked the way it had changed Bucky. Even though Bucky had worked late, long shifts at the docks, he had never come home in a temper like he did after a shift at the factory. Now, he came home worn thin every night, and each night he stayed at the bar a little later. 

One day he came storming in, a bloodstained bandage over his hand and his jaw tight. Steve had made cream chipped beef on toast, but it had gotten cold on the counter. Bucky picked up the plate and winced—it clattered to the counter, and the bloodstain on his bandage grew larger. 

“Are you alright?” Steve asked, looking up from his sketches.

“Another cold meal,” Bucky said shortly. “I come home from working my ass off to another cold meal, while you’re here in the house all day doing who knows what.” 

“I’m working,” Steve said tersely. “I work, just like you. And I told you before, I’m not your maid or your ma. You want a hot meal, than go eat someplace else instead of coming home at midnight. What happened to your hand?” 

“Nothing. It’s fine.” 

“Are you su—”

“I said it’s fine! I got careless.” 

Steve sighed, and stood up from the table. He took the plate from Bucky’s hand and slid the toast onto a skillet on the stove to warm up. “Look, Buck, if something’s wrong you best go to the manager and tell him. It’s not gonna get any better any other way.” 

“What’dya want me to do, Steve?” Bucky slid into a chair. “Get myself fired? My manager is the one who’s causing all this trouble. Saying I messed up, when the damn coils are labeled and we all know I didn’t do it. Acting like he owns the damn world—like I’m some kinda sewer rat or something, and I can’t do nothing about it but take it ‘cause we need the money. We need this job. I need this job. I can’t let you pay for everything. I told your ma I’d look after you, not—” 

“Hey, don’t you worry about me. We’re in this together, remember? Till the end of the line.” Steve smiled. He reached out and took Bucky’s good hand.

“Yeah. Till end the end of the line.” 

*****

After the third time in the week of Bucky staggering home half under, reeking of sex and cigarette smoke and cheap whiskey, Steve had had enough. Bucky came home on a Thursday night with his tie undone, lipstick on his collar, and raw, split knuckles. His threw his jacket over the kitchen chair—it had another hole in it, one that would have to be sewed up. 

“Look what the cat dragged in,” Steve said. 

“Lay off.” Bucky’s voice was too tired to sound harsh. It was a hollow sort of voice that scooped out Steve’s insides. “I’m hitting the sack.” 

“Wait.” Steve caught his wrist, leading him into the lamplight on the table. 

There was a jagged cut above Bucky’s eye that he had tried to hide with his hair (it was growing long—Steve would have to cut it later). His palms were scraped raw, covered in blood and dirt, and his lip was split. His hair was matted with dirt and tacky with blood. 

“I’m fine,” Bucky slurred. “S’just a scrape.” 

“Sit down,” Steve said, and Bucky didn’t argue. He cut away his eyes, staring at his scuffed boots. 

Steve put the kettle on the stove and got a dishtowel out of the drawer, along with the small kit he kept near the matches. When the water was hot, he poured it into a bowl and set down at the table next to Bucky. Bucky winced, but didn’t protest as Steve wiped the blood and dirt from his face.

“Some scrape this is. It needs stitches.” Steve pulled a needle and thread out of the kit. “If you weren’t so reckless, your coat would have been the only thing I had to stitch.” 

“Just get it over with, Steve. I already got one beating today—I don’t need an earful too.” 

Steve frowned, but he didn’t say another word as he stitched Bucky up. The kitchen was filled with an uneasy quiet. 

“Hold still, or it’s gonna be crooked.” 

“I’m trying,” Bucky said. “It don’t feel too good, you poking around there.” 

“It ain’t supposed to.” 

When the suture was finished, Steve tipped out the pink water into the sink and poured fresh water into the bowl. Then he took Bucky’s hand, turning it over. Bucky looked away, sullen, but he softened when Steve washed the grit out of hands gently, like his ma used to do when he got into fights. Bucky’s eyes fluttered closed as Steve reached up to wipe away the blood from his hairline. 

“You shouldn’t have been so reckless,” Steve said. 

“Look at the pot calling the kettle black.” 

“I’m serious, Bucky. Look at me.” 

Bucky’s eyes snapped open. “So it’s alright when you get into a fight—it’s justice then. You’re a real hero when you get into scrapes, huh? But when I do it I’m being careless and stupid. Is that right?” Bucky winced as the rag dug into his palms. 

“You’re drunk. Again. What would I have done if you hadn’t come home, if you had been laying in some back alley cause you picked a fight with the wrong man?” 

“So what if I’m drunk? We can’t all be saints like you. Besides, I can hold my own. You’re only worried that if I break my hand I’ll be out of a job, and we’ll have one less paycheck,” Bucky snarled. 

Steve dunked the rag back in the bowl, causing a little water to spill over the sides onto the table. “Go sleep it off,” he said quietly. 

Bucky looked like he wanted to get the last word in, but he just shivered and stood up, staggering into the bedroom and slamming the door behind him. Steve stayed up late that night, not doing much of work, his thoughts spinning around in circles before he crawled into bed beside Bucky, missing the warmth of his arm draped across his shoulder or around his waist. 

*****

The next Saturday, Steve took the train to go visit his ma’s grave. Bucky came with a small posy in the pocket of his coat. When Steve asked him how he had paid for the flowers, Bucky just grinned and said that he knew a flower girl, and that they were on friendly enough terms to do each other a favor now and then. Steve didn’t ask any further than that. 

The wind was crisp, and it stirred up the blood under Steve’s skin. It had been a while since he had gone out in the city, and it felt good to breathe in the cold air with his fragile lungs like the colored, crumpled tissue paper in art class. The cemetery was nearly empty, and after Bucky set the flowers on the grave he stood there silent while Steve told himself that the tears in his eyes were just whipped up by the wind and nothing else. He swallowed the lump in his throat and tried to ignore the ache in his chest. She was gone, and nothing could change that. He knew that, but it didn’t make things much easier. 

When he turned back up the gravel road, Bucky set a hand on his shoulder. They walked to the park with the dry, brown grass crackling under their feet. 

“Stay here,” Bucky said, motioning to the wooden bench overlooking the path. 

Steve nodded, lost in his thoughts. In his mind, it was a cloudless August evening, and the sun shone warm on his skin. His mother was in the kitchen teaching him how to peel the potatoes for the shepherd’s pie, her deft, small hands peeling the potato as easily as he shaved a pencil with the pocketknife that had been his father’s once. Bucky was outside, feeding the potato scraps to a stray dog that had followed him home from the ballpark. He was warm, and safe, and happy. 

“Here,” Bucky said. “Careful, it’s hot.” 

Steve took the cup from his hands, and Bucky sat down beside him on the bench. It was hot chocolate, rich and frothy. Steve took a sip that singed his mouth, and Bucky laughed. 

“Let it cool down first. Have a little patience.” 

“Says you,” Steve murmured. “Thanks.” 

“I have a bit of pocket change now that I’m not spending it all at the gin mill,” Bucky said ruefully. 

They sat side by side, sipping hot chocolate and watching the pigeons strut around on the pathway with their purple and green collars glossy in the afternoon sunlight. By the time Steve had finished his cup, Bucky had fallen asleep with his head against Steve’s shoulder. 

Bucky’s hair fell into his eyes. Steve glanced over, trying not to shift so he wouldn’t wake him. He couldn’t resist stealing glances at Bucky when he was sleeping—it was one of the only times when Bucky lost the tired ragged look he always wore, or the grinning mask he used to cover it up. Here, with soft lips and his dark eyelashes, he looked years younger.

There was a shadow of stubble on his cheeks (they couldn’t afford a razor until next paycheck) and dark circles under his eyes. His hands were stained with machine oil and hardened with calluses, but right now, asleep, he was his Bucky. And that was enough. Steve’s fingers itched to draw him, but he was content with memorizing the lines of his face, searing them into his memory. With Bucky by his side, he was warm, and safe, and happy. That was enough. That should have been enough. He wanted so much for it to be enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -Thank you SO MUCH for all the kudos and comments! They really make my day. :)
> 
> -Constructive criticism is very welcome--leave some feedback if you're interested!
> 
> -Stay tuned for another update next week!


	3. In the Mood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky gets a swanky new wireless -- dancing and shenanigans ensue.

“Alright, you can come out now.” Bucky opened the door to the bedroom, a grin plastered to his face. “But close your eyes.” 

“But—”

“No peeking!” Bucky covered Steve’s eyes with his hands and pushed him into the small living room. “It’s a surprise.” 

“Okay, okay. Can I look now?” 

“Go ahead.” 

Steve opened his eyes and saw a glossy wood-paneled radio sitting next to the wall. He reached out to fiddle with one of the small knobs. “Bucky, how…?” 

“I’ve been saving a little of my own, and I thought it was time enough for us to get one.” Bucky smiled, and if Steve didn’t know him he would have thought he looked shy. “You do like it, don’t you?”

“Of course I do, Buck. It’s real swell.” 

Bucky laughed. “Well that’s good, ‘cause there’s still one or two payments left to make, but don’t you worry—I got it covered.” 

Steve turned the knob, and static crackled. He turned it some more until music drifted into the apartment, the kind of jazzy swing music that played in all the dance halls and made the girls go wild. The kind that Bucky would come home whistling at the end of a good day. “In the Mood” began playing, that earworm of a tune that Steve could never get Bucky to stop singing on better days. Bucky pulled him up at the sound of his favorite song, eyes shining. 

“Come on now, let’s dance.” Bucky tapped his foot. “I’m in the mood for some fun.” 

“Ah, Buck.” Steve tried not to laugh, but he did anyway. “You know I’ve got two left feet. And I gotta start on supper if you ever want to eat tonight.” 

“What else are we gonna do with this swanky wireless other than dance? I’ll show you how. It won’t take long, I promise. There’ll be enough time for supper.” 

Steve brushed his hands on his trousers, still smiling. “Alright, alright.” 

“Now, if you want to pick up dames at the dancing hall, you gotta be real smooth. You gotta be confident and charming—girls like that. You gotta square your shoulders and go up to that pretty little doll and look her in the eyes when you ask her to dance. Like this.” 

Bucky shrugged off his coat and swaggered over to Steve, tilting his head down to look at him from under his eyelashes. He was wearing that devil-may-care grin that made an entirely different ache bloom in Steve’s chest. 

“May I have this dance?” Bucky bowed slightly at the waist, taking Steve’s hand and pressing a kiss to it. 

Steve nodded, trying not to blush like a schoolboy. He draped his hand over Bucky’s shoulder and clasped the other one, interlocking their fingers and feeling the rough calluses on Bucky’s hands that were smudged with machine oil. Bucky’s other hand pressed against his waist, drawing him closer until Steve was drowning in Bucky’s heat and the scent of cheap soap and the tang of metal. They started dancing, with Steve stumbling a bit and his coat flying as Bucky whirled him around the living room with sure steps. 

“See, now you’re getting the hang of it,” Bucky said. 

Steve laughed, breathless and flushed. He finally knew what it was like to be like one of those beautiful girls Bucky twirled on his arm, making them the envy of the dance hall—it was like every warm sticky-summer evening condensed in a sweet caramel on the stove, brighter than the taste of starlight champagne on his tongue. Steve let Bucky lead him, tugging him this way and that, stepping all around the living room in a flurry, spinning and twirling to the crackling radio. 

Then they stopped, and Bucky was the anchor of his whirling world. Steve laughed. Bucky was radiant, flushed and glowing to outshine the stars. His eyes glittered in the last of the afternoon light coming in from the windows that pooled like honey onto the rough wooden floors. 

Bucky leaned down, eyes fluttering closed, and kissed him. There was no whiskey on his breath this time. Steve stood frozen and then melted into him, his hands running through Bucky’s hair. Bucky’s mouth was as soft as it looked, and warm. A thrill shot down Steve’s spine as Bucky cupped his face with his hand, tilting his head up. The jolt made Steve jump, and his hands tightened in Bucky’s hair. Bucky gasped and pressed closer, and Steve was burning feverishly hot, and he didn’t care—kissing Bucky was like being at the center of a star, and he didn’t care if he burnt up with it. 

It was everything Steve had ever dreamed of, the only thing he had ever wanted from Bucky that he had never had the courage to ask for. And then the kettle screamed, and Steve pulled apart, heart racing. Bucky opened his eyes, startled. There was a flush creeping all the way beneath his undershirt unbuttoned at the neck. 

“I-I’d better get that,” Steve said. “I should start supper.” 

“Sure,” Bucky murmured, picking up his coat. “I’m going for a walk—just need some fresh air. I’ll be back before supper’s ready.” 

*****

After that, Steve caught Bucky giving him strange glances in the morning when he got dressed, and staring into his coffee with a dazed sort of look like a fresh caught fish on ice at the docks. Steve tried to ignore it the best he could, but he didn’t want to think what was going on in that brain of his. He didn’t want Bucky to look at him like something had changed between them, like he had broken something that could never be fixed, like had thrown away the one thing that made his life worth living. His breath shorted at the thought that he had torn it all apart, that Bucky had seen right through him and now he would be alone, utterly alone. 

Steve would have taken it all back if he could—taken it back so he could live this life forever, right here. With Bucky. Together. Poor and dog-tired and eating pasta and potatoes every day of the week. It didn’t matter—none of that mattered when Bucky was by his side, and nothing would ever matter if Bucky left. He would just be a shell of a man with nothing worth drawing and no place worth staying—a wandering shade. If only he had more self-control, a scrap of common sense. 

Steve wondered if Bucky had known sooner if he would have stayed. If he would have been content to share the same bed, live in the same house, if he would have been so careless with his affection and so warm. If Bucky had known, then why had he stayed? Why had he gotten into fights with all the boys who called Steve a punk in back alleys? Why? They were right, weren’t they? He was a queer, something people looked at like gum stuck to the bottom of their shoe, something whispered about in polite society and sneered at in back alleys. Something that had gotten him bloody and bruised before, and that was without him having kissed a man. And now Bucky knew once and for all, knew everything that he had tried not to want for so long.

But Bucky had started it. Did that mean that he was like Steve too, that he felt the same way? Did that make him half-queer, or was he just playing along? No, how could it be? He was a ladies’ man, the kind every girl on the street wanted to kiss and every guy wanted to kill. He was normal. Steve didn’t understand why someone like Bucky would ever throw away everything he had if he didn’t have to. 

Maybe, if Steve wasn’t so stuck on Bucky, if he wasn’t the only thing he went to bed dreaming about and woke up thinking about, he could settle down with a nice girl and be done with it, but Bucky was right here, right in front of him, tempting him, and Steve wasn’t strong enough to say no. If anyone found out about Bucky kissing him, it would ruin any chance Bucky had of making something for himself in the world. Steve couldn’t take a chance of ruining every dream Bucky had of working himself on up in the world. He couldn’t let Bucky throw it all away just for him. He wasn’t that selfish. He couldn’t be. 

“Were you listening?” Bucky tossed his scarf around his neck and slipped on his newly shined shoes. 

“Uh, yeah. You were going out. With… Milly?” 

“Nancy, now.” 

Nancy—the blue eyed blonde haired girl that had been hanging on Bucky’s arm at the dance hall for the past few weeks, with a waist like a wasp and a sting to match.  
“I still got work finish up. You go on without me.” 

“Ah, come on. She’s got a swell friend named Barb. A redhead, and I hear the carpet matches the drapes.” Bucky winked. “She’s a swell dame, I’m sure you’ll like her.”

“I said I’m not interested, Buck. Go on, and don’t get into anymore drunk fights. I don’t wanna have to stitch you up again tonight.” 

Bucky scowled. “Fine. Suit yourself. Don’t wait up for me then.” 

“I won’t.” 

*****

“I thought you said you weren’t waiting on me?” Bucky came in the front door stamping his boots, with snow sprinkling his hair and caught on his scarf.

“I didn’t. I told you, I had work to do.” 

“You’re gonna run yourself ragged, Rogers.” 

“Rogers, is it?” Steve raised an eyebrow, trying to hide the barb in his chest. 

Bucky loosened his tie and tossed his coat over the kitchen table, then went into the living room and flopped on the couch beside Steve. “She was a real drag, Steve. It was a fiasco. I’m losing my touch—both of ‘em walked out before the meal even ended.” 

“Oh? What’d you do, throw the gin on their blouse or talk non-stop about the Dodgers?” 

“Lay off,” Bucky muttered. “S’nothing like that. They just… weren’t interested.” 

“Really? That’s a first, ain’t it?” Steve laughed. “Poor Buck, now you know how it feels for the rest of us mortal men. Them Cupid’s arrows of yours gone lost their charm?” 

“Well… maybe I wasn’t as interested as I thought. Nancy was a real flat tire, you know. Nothing like…” Bucky laid down with his head resting in Steve’s lap, taking the pencil from Steve’s hands and tucking his behind his ear. “You really shoulda been there, Steve.” 

“Is that so? I thought I told you to stop wasting so much money on getting soused. You don’t need another vice to pick up, you know.” 

“Hate the sin, love the sinner.” Bucky grinned. He reached up, brushing his thumb against Steve’s lips. 

Steve swallowed hard. “Cut that out,” he said hoarsely. “You’re half under, and you know it.” 

“So what? Tell me you don’t want it. Tell me, Steve.” 

Bucky sat up, turning around and throwing a leg across Steve’s thigh. He leaned in, smelling of gin and cigarette smoke. He stared at Steve, trailing his gaze down from Steve’s lips to his collar and down further, further. Steve shivered, trying not to let the heat pool in his stomach, but it did. Bucky’s gaze did all sorts of things to him that it shouldn’t.  
Bucky leaned in even closer, putting his hands on either side of Steve’s shoulders on the couch and kissing him hard, roughly, his lips tasting of juniper and smoke. 

Steve put his hand on Bucky’s chest and pushed him away. “I don’t want to be your second choice for when you can’t charm women into your bed,” he snapped. “You’re bent and you know it. You know you’re just messing around like I’m one of your dames you can use for a night and be done with! Well, if you want it that bad then go take your pocket change and buy some chintzy quiff while you’re out having a good time at the gin mill.” 

Bucky’s eyes widen, as if the shock was enough to get him half-sober. “Steve, I—” 

“I don’t want your damn excuses, James. I’ve had enough of them. Now, I’m going to bed. I’ll see you in the morning when you’re halfway sober.” 

Bucky pulled back as if Steve had slapped him, and the fact that Steve wanted to apologize made him even angrier. But Bucky didn’t say anything else, just sat there, deflated and looking smaller than he ever had in his too-big coat with a patch on the elbow where he had sown it up after his fight. 

Steve got up, scooping his art supplies into his arms and plucking his pencil from Bucky’s ear. Then he went into the bedroom, shutting the door behind him. Bucky didn’t come in even to change his clothes. He stayed on the couch and slept in his day clothes. Steve curled up in the cold twin-sized bed that felt too large for him and fell into a restless sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -I'm so excited to post this chapter -- it's the idea that got me started on the whole thing! 
> 
> -So... this fic has already expanded past what I thought it was going to be. I have a couple of chapters queued up that are a tad bit spicier than what I've been posting so far. Let's just say that it's (Jared Kleinman voice) KiNkY~. So stick around, 'cause it's going to be a wild ride! 
> 
> -Like and comment if you’re young, scrappy, and hungry just like your country!


	4. Seeing Stars

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve takes Bucky to the carnival for his birthday, and later on things get steamy.

On the day before Bucky’s birthday, they heated up water in pans on the stove, filled the washtub in the kitchen, and took baths, scraping all the soot and dirt off their skin in the warm, tepid water and scrubbing down with the lye soap Steve had gotten from Mrs. Harrison down the street. 

They took the train to the carnival as the sun set, and they arrived in the last dregs of dusk when the lit up carnival lights winked like fireflies in the purple twilight. 

“Ain’t that something?” Bucky said. 

“Sure is, Buck. Come on, let’s get our tickets before the line gets any longer.” 

Bucky nodded and took off his scarf, wrapping it around Steve’s neck. “You’re shivering. I told you to put on something warmer—can’t have you getting sick again.”

“I’m fine,” Steve said, but he didn’t mind it. The scarf smelled like Bucky in the crisp air, even among the smells of rich funnel cake and buttery popcorn and hotdogs. They got their tickets, and Steve wouldn’t let Bucky pay—after all, it was his birthday. 

“Well, where should we go first?” Bucky asked, counting off their tickets. “The Viper? The Tilt-a-Whirl? The Whip?”

Steve laughed. “You don’t want me to puke all over your good shoes again, do you?” 

“Where to then?” 

“Hmm. How ‘bout the Ferris Wheel?” Steve pulled out some pocket change and bought two hot dogs at a booth, handing one to Bucky. 

“The Ferris Wheel? Ain’t that for kids or… lovers?” 

Steve flushed. “Of course it ain’t! It’s for sightseeing, you sap. Now come on before everybody in New York hops in line.”

“Fine, fine. But we’re going on The Whip next. I heard from Johnny down at the factory that it’ll make your head spin.” 

They waited in line in the cold, eating hotdogs that tasted somehow better than the ones they bought in the store to put in their fried potatoes, and drinking in the sticky-sweet night air spilling from the booths selling clouds of cotton candy. 

When they got into the carriage together, the operator glanced at them for a moment before pulling the lever, but Steve told himself that it was just his imagination, that nobody could tell he was a queer just by looking, although maybe it was a little odd for the two of them to be in the same carriage together. They rose higher and higher, breaking above the horizon. Below them, the city lights gleamed and the skeletons of the skyscrapers being built climbed until they touched the clouds—the march of progress. Steve prayed that a new progress would come, where no one would be judged for the sort of things they couldn’t control—the color of their skin, who they loved, where they grew up, what language they spoke. It just didn’t make any sense. 

“What are you thinking about, Steve? You look so serious like that.” Bucky took hold of his hand. Bucky was always warm, and even without gloves Steve felt his heat. He shivered as Bucky brushed his thumb across the thin silvery scars over his knuckles that still hadn’t healed all the way. 

“Nothing much.” 

“You always got your head up in the clouds.” Bucky laughed. “Guess now we both do, way up here. You were right, Steve. This is pretty swell.” 

“Yeah.” Steve turned to look at Bucky, his Bucky. “It’s beautiful.” 

“So are you,” Bucky said with a grin, and even after they lowered back to the ground, Steve was still on cloud nine. 

*****

When they came home, Bucky still wiping his shoes off from the leftovers of Steve’s hotdog he had threw up and in tears from laugher, Steve went into the kitchen and pulled out the sugar he had been saving. 

“You need any help with that?” Bucky asked. 

“It’s your birthday cake, Buck. Just sit back and stop pacing a hole in the floor. It’ll be ready soon enough.” 

Bucky sat at the table, watching, stripping down to rolled-up shirtsleeves despite the chill. Steve set the milk and butter in a saucepan on the stove to heat up with the vanilla he had saved up for all these weeks while he creamed the eggs and sugar, beating them light and fluffy. Then he stirred in the ingredients with the flour and baking soda and pinch of salt like his ma always taught him to do. Steve scraped it all into a bundt pan and licked the batter off the wooden spoon. Bucky was still watching, eyes wide, his throat flashing. He looked away with a slightly guilty look, like a child caught stealing candy at the mom-and-pop. 

When the cake was ready, Steve set it on the kitchen table. “Well, there aren’t any candles, but make a wish all the same.” 

Bucky looked at him and grinned. “You sure that’s how that works? Alright, I got my wish.” 

Steve went into the living room and turned on the radio while Bucky cut the cake that was still hot and steaming. 

“You’re going to make some gal real happy one day, you know that?” Bucky said, “Imagine, a pip like you baking up something swell like this.” 

“It ain’t that hard, Buck. You’d know if you tried.” 

Bucky sat digging into a thick slice, and then helped himself to another. “I was about to ask how we’re going eat this whole cake, but I think I can manage.” 

“Glad to hear it. After all, there’s about two cups of sugar—it’d better not go to waste.” 

After they had finished half the cake, Steve set it aside on the counter and Bucky cleared away the dishes, but before he could start washing up, Steve took his hand. “Sorry I don’t have a present for you, Buck.”

“Don’t apologize—I’d rather have a couple of good memories than a present I’d just forget about.” 

“Well then, in that case,” Steve smiled, pressing Bucky’s hand to his lips with a flourish. “Would you care to dance?” 

“I do believe I would,” Bucky said smiling, and let Steve pull him into the living room. 

Steve draped his coat over the couch and stood there in suspenders and stocking feet with his hand around Bucky’s waist. “In the Mood” was playing like it always was, and Steve grinned. 

“So, is this our song now?” Bucky asked. 

“If you want it to be.” Steve stepped close so he could lead. “Let’s give it a whirl.” 

They started out slow, with Bucky laughing as Steve stepped on his feet, but then Steve picked it up, just like he had picked up kissing pretty quick. Dancing with Bucky seemed the most natural thing in the world. They were two halves of a whole, and even though Bucky was taller, it was easier dancing with him than with any girl at the dance hall. 

“You been practicing?” Bucky laughed. “You’ll take the dance hall by storm one of these days, mark my words. Then you won’t need me to practice with.” 

“Who says I’d rather be dancing with anyone else?” Steve murmured, sending Bucky into a twirl, and when Bucky came back into his arms Steve raised up and kissed him. 

This time, he didn’t pull away. Steve kissed him, firmly this time, not the hesitant chaste kisses he pressed to girl’s mouths like they were painted china cups. He didn’t want to waste another moment or miss another chance. After all, the world might just come to an end any minute now, and there was no sense in standing still for it. He wanted to be really living, and Bucky made him feel alive. Bucky made a low noise in his throat, and Steve chased his heat with his mouth, angling up, twisting his fingers in Bucky’s hair and pulling him down closer. Steve pushed him back against the wall of the kitchen, pinning him there, kissing the tight arch of Bucky’s throat. 

“Jesus, Mary and Joseph,” Bucky breathed. His eyes pooled dark, and his lips were bitten red. “When did you get that kinda fire in your belly? You’ve been kissing like a schoolboy, and now this? What’d you do, make a deal with the devil?” 

“I can’t wait any longer, Buck. I ain’t that patient.” 

Bucky hissed slow through his teeth. “Even if I had a million dollars I wouldn’t wish for anything but this.” 

Steve laughed, low and raspy. “You dirty liar. Don’t give me that line—you can’t sweet talk me like those girls you pick up.” 

“Oh? That a bet?” Bucky raised an eyebrow. “Cash or check, sweetheart?” 

“Cash.” Steve kissed him long and slow. “S’only kinda cash we’ll have for a while.” 

“Only kinda cash you need,” Bucky said. 

“Now quit running that pretty mouth of yours and kiss me like you mean it,” Steve said. 

“Aye, Captain.” Bucky saluted, quick and sharp, and Steve had half a mind to cuff him instead of kiss him. 

“You saucy bastard.” Steve couldn’t stop laughing as he unbuttoned Bucky’s undershirt, grazing his fingers over Bucky’s sharp collarbone and smoothing them over his hard shoulders. 

Then he kissed him before Bucky kept running his mouth, kissed him like he’d wanted to for longer than he could remember, like he could tell him everything he’d never said but should have without so much as a whisper: I love you and I need you and I want you. Bucky took his bottom lip in his teeth, nipping, open-mouthed and hungry. He put his hands on Steve’s waist, drawing him up as easily as picking up a sack of potatoes, and Steve wrapped his legs around Bucky’s hips, pressing against him so that Bucky moaned. 

“Don’t be such a tease,” Bucky gasped, and Steve just rocked his hips a little slower with a wicked grin. 

Steve leaned in, nipping at his ear. “Thought I told you to lay off,” he whispered. 

“You gonna make me?”  
“I might.” Steve pressed his lips to Bucky’s neck right below his ear, sucking slowly, and Bucky shivered with a hitch in his breath. 

Steve took advantage of his new height to grip Bucky’s hair, tilting his head up to meet his lips, running his nails across Bucky’s scalp. Bucky’s hands pressed harder against the small of his back, riding up his shirt and leaving small indents on the soft skin above his hips. Bucky’s eyes fluttered closed, his dark lashes brushing his cheeks. 

“You like that, don’t you darlin’?” Steve ran his fingers through Bucky’s hair, twisting and tugging so that Bucky’s back arched and his neck was tight as he tilted his head back. 

“That’s my line,” Bucky panted, and answered with a rough kiss, shifting his grip to Steve’s ass and hitching him up further. 

Then Bucky carried him into the bedroom and threw him on the bed with a creak, pinning him down on the sheets, teeth bared in a wild grin. He unbuttoned the rest of his shirt and tossed it to the floor, and Steve took off his own shirt with trembling fingers. Steve reached for the button of his trousers, but Bucky stopped him. 

“You sure about this, Stevie?” 

“Never been surer. You?” 

“Course I am. They don’t call me the thief of hearts for nothing. I’ll steal your heart then your skirt or britches faster than you can blink.” 

Steve laughed, shimmying out of his jeans and boxers. “Lay off, they don’t call you nothing but a silver-tongued tramp. Now, you just gonna sit there and stare, or you gonna put that big mouth and silver-tongue of yours to good use?” 

Bucky whistled. “What a dirty mouth you got on you. No wonder the girls are all scared of ya, Stevie.” He sunk down, pinning Steve’s wrists above his head and looking at him through his lashes with a look Steve was sure Bucky must have practiced in a mirror when he wasn’t looking. He swallowed hard. “Tell me what you want, then.” 

“God, I want you, Buck. Nothing but you. I want you inside me, hot. I want to see the stars, Buck. See the stars in them pretty eyes of yours, when I close my eyes.” 

“You’re a goddamn poet, Steve, but that don’t help me out here all that much.” Bucky scrambled out of his boxers, hard and stiff as he pressed against Steve’s thigh. He reached for the Vaseline on the side table, slicked himself up as Steve watched, biting his lip. 

“You ever done this before?” Steve asked. 

“There’s a first time for everything.” Bucky gripped his hips, splayed Steve’s legs out, and Steve wrapped them up around his ass, heels digging into the small of his back, pressing him down. Bucky pushed down, lifting Steve up and trying to slide in, praying to God that it worked the way he thought it did. He hesitated for a moment, not knowing if it would hurt Steve, if two guys could even do it like this at all. 

Steve gasped, and Bucky pulled back. “Are you okay?” 

“Yeah. Just… go slower.” 

Bucky nodded, and Steve guided him in with his eyes fluttering with pleasure as Bucky slid in and out with shallow, slow thrusts. 

“Buck, please,” Steve said, voice tight. “Please!”

That just about set Buck off, and he slid in farther, unsure at first and then steady, and it was like fucking a dame and not like anything he had ever felt, his hips stuttering and rolling and Steve’s legs digging harder into his ass with every thrust. 

“How’s this?” Bucky panted, grinning. 

“S’wonderful,” Steve said. “Don’t stop.”

Steve felt his stomach coiling, his body burning with heat, with Bucky’s heat, that inside melting core of a star that burnt him up inside and was like warm sand pouring down his spine. And Bucky was making those low, raspy, needy sounds that Steve had always imagined late at night, and Steve tried to be quiet but Bucky was wringing the cries right out of them, snatching them from his lips with his hot, incessant mouth, making the bed springs creak with each thrust of his hips. 

Steve arched, scraping Bucky’s stomach, the hard planes of his abs that Steve loved to draw, running his fingers over Bucky’s stomach, tracing the lines and soft spot of his hips, mapping out Bucky’s skin under his touch, driving Bucky wild. They moved faster and faster, with ragged gasps and salty skin. Steve reached up, dragging his nails down Bucky’s shoulder blades, gasping with every thrust. It was so much, everything he had ever dreamed of and so many things besides. He closed his eyes and buried his hands in Bucky’s hair and bit off sharp cries and it was like the universe was unfolding, unwinding just for them, spilling out its secrets and the heat of its birth. Steve was undone as Bucky’s harsh cries died down into gasps and sighs, and he shuddered apart in Bucky’s arms. 

They lay there in the darkness for a long while, panting, sticky and hot, spent like a burnt match. 

Bucky’s lips grazed his ear. “Was that good? Was that what you wanted?” If Steve didn’t know him, he would have thought he sounded shy. 

“God, yes,” Steve said with a shaky laugh. “But I think we can do it better next time.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -So, this was the original end of the fic, but it's grown since then, so stay tuned for more weekly updates! 
> 
> -Did you spot the American in Paris reference? ;)
> 
> -Happy Pride Month, ya'll!!! :) 
> 
> -Like and comment if you like pancakes! (Leave your favorite topping in the comments if you want—my favorite is sour cream + sugar)


	5. Consequences

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Steve repeatedly goes looking for trouble and Bucky, fed up with his recklessness, decides to teach him a lesson.

When Steve came home from the post office, he prayed that Bucky would be out at the gin mill having a few drinks before hitting the dance hall. Unfortunately, it was before five in the evening, and even Bucky’s debauchery didn’t extend that far. When Steve opened the door, Bucky was sitting on the couch reading the latest John Carter with his feet on the cushions. Steve had told him time and time again to get his boots off the furniture, but there was no way in hell he’d make a fuss of it now. As soon as Steve set foot in the door, Bucky looked up. Steve tried to dart into the kitchen, but it was too late.

Bucky set his book down and stood up. “Trying to sneak off, are you?” His voice was tight. 

“I ain’t sneaking nowhere. This is my apartment too y’know.” 

“Get into the kitchen so I can take a closer look at you,” Bucky said. “And don’t track any blood on the rug this time, or I swear I’ll have you on your hands and knees scrubbing it clean.” 

“Don’t see a difference—I’m the only the one who cleans this place anyway,” Steve muttered. He regretted it as soon as the words left his mouth. 

“Is that so?” Bucky raised an eyebrow. 

Steve wasn’t stupid enough to answer him. He turned around to face Bucky in the light of the kitchen window. There was already supper on the stove. Steve bit his tongue to keep him from telling Bucky to turn the gas down so the soup wouldn’t burn. He didn’t think now was the time. Instead, he stood silently and stiffly as Bucky looked him over. The split lip, the blood matting his hair, the black eye. Steve stood up straighter and tried to ignore his aching ribs. They probably weren’t as busted as they felt. 

“Well?” Bucky’s voice was acrid. “What do you have to say for yourself this time?” 

“That’s my line.” Steve bristled. “Don’t act all high and mighty with me, when you were getting into fights left and right just a few months ago.” 

“It ain’t the same and you know it. I got into fights because I was bored and drunk. You go spoiling for a fight when you’re stone cold sober in the middle of the evening. You don’t know when to quit—half the time I think you choose the biggest guy on the block to piss off on purpose. And don’t go spouting all that talk about ‘justice’ either. We both know that’s a load of horseshit. You have no self-preservation, Steve. You’re a reckless, obstinate mule, and if I wasn’t there to drag you out of things you’d have killed yourself by now.” 

“This was different, Buck—”

“Don’t ‘Buck’ me. I don’t want to hear another one of your hardheaded excuses. This has been going on for far too long.” 

“They were calling us faeries and queers! I couldn’t let it stand. Not when it might get back to your boss at the factory. You know he doesn’t even need a good reason to sack you.”  
“This isn’t about me, Steven. And if they want to talk, let them. It’s not like they’re wrong, is it?” 

“That ain’t the point! You can’t just let them say whatever they want, putting ideas in people’s heads. It ain’t like you to back down from a fight, anyway.” 

“There’s no sense in fighting the whole damn world. Even you should see that by now. God knows you’ve tried. It’s like you’re asking for a beating.” 

“Maybe I am,” Steve said, sullenly licking at the dried blood on his lower lip. 

“You know what? Fine. If you want to act like a schoolboy, getting into all sorts of scrapes, then I’ll treat you like one. You want a whipping, then I’ll give you one.”  
“Yeah?” Steve was belligerent. “You think I can’t take it?” 

“I think you need to be taught a lesson.” Bucky’s face flushed, and his lips were set in a tight line. He loosened his belt from his trousers and slid it out of the loops. “Now bend over the table and drop your drawers.” 

Steve blanched. Bucky’s eye glinted, and his throat flashed. His jaw was tight, and his shoulders were stiff. He was like one of those carved statues, cold and distant and solid. He was beautiful, irresistible, and if Steve wasn’t so worried about what Bucky was going to do to him or how angry he was, he would have fucked him over the table right there. But Bucky was serious, and Steve knew he meant business. He was untouchable, his eyes darkening in the fading light like storm clouds rolling over a blue horizon. 

“Go on,” Bucky said. “You didn’t think it was going to be one of your ma’s swats, did you? No, I’m gonna knock some sense into that thick skull of yours in the only way you seem to understand. Don’t give me no lip, either. I mean it. Someone has to teach you some common sense before you get yourself killed.” 

“But what if the neighbors—”

“I ain’t gonna tell you again.” Bucky’s voice brooked no arguments. “The neighbors know what a little bit of discipline sounds like.” 

Steve shivered, dropping his trousers to the floor with trembling hands. He hadn’t seen Bucky this wound up since he had come home with his hand bloody from an accident at work after a long day of enduring his boss’ rants. This time, it would take nothing short of a miracle to ease his temper. 

“You think I’m mad, but I’m not. I’m disappointed in you, Steve. Your ma taught you better than this.” 

Steve’s face burned with shame. “That’s a low blow. Just get it over with, will ya? Supper’ll burn by the time you finish giving me an earful.” 

“Oh, I’m going to give you a lot more than that,” Bucky said. “I’m going to whip some sense into you, and you’re going to count each blow. It’ll give you something to think about.”  
Steve raised his eyes to Bucky’s. “Now wait a second—you’re going too far. You don’t have the right to—”

“I have every right,” Bucky snapped. “I said I was going to look after you, but I can’t do that if you’re lying dead in a gutter somewhere with your teeth busted in. Someone’s gotta make see a little reason, and if this is the only way I can do it, then it’s what I’m going to do. You’re so prideful that a regular talking to won’t cut it. Now, if you spout anymore sass I’ll bend you over my knee myself and wear you out until every one of the neighbors hears you begging for mercy.” 

Steve’s eyes grew wide, and he clamped his mouth shut. 

“Good. Now bend over, and count for me. Do you understand me?” 

Steve nodded. He flushed to his roots as he bent over the cool wood of the table. He swallowed hard, trying to stop his wildly beating heart—he couldn’t tell if he was excited or afraid. In the face of Bucky’s perfect, beautiful wrath, it might be both. The singing adrenaline in his veins blocked out the ache of his tired muscles and set his whole body ablaze.

The first blow came without warning, a whistle and a crack, and then a searing pain that left Steve too surprised to notice much else. 

“I said count them.” Bucky’s low, raspy voice sent a thrill down Steve’s spine. 

“One.” Steve shaped the word carefully, tentatively. It tasted bittersweet in his mouth, and sent a fresh wave of shame through him, mixed with a heady feeling he couldn’t pin down. He would go into hell and back for Bucky, and even though he chafed under authority, it felt so good to obey Bucky, like warm honey under his skin and on his tongue. 

The next blow sent Steve’s thoughts spinning. He gripped the edge of the table, gritting his teeth. “Two.” 

The belt lashed hot and stinging across his bare ass, and Steve sucked in a gasp. Bucky really wasn’t pulling his punches. “Three.” He began to raise up, but Bucky’s firm hand on the small of his back stopped him. 

“Where do you think you’re going? This is a punishment, not a warning.” 

The next three blows came quick and hard. “Four. Five. Six,” Steve spat out through gritted teeth. Tears sprung to his eyes. His ass was burning with the stripes, and he leaned heavy against the table, pushing his hips against the edge. Despite the pain, he was hard, wanting. He needed Bucky’s hands on him, on his—

Bucky whipped him again on the same spot, wringing a cry from Steve’s lips. “What was that, Steve? I couldn’t hear you.” 

“Seven,” Steve said panting. He bit off another cry as Bucky sent another lash across his aching ass. “Eight.” 

“Have you learned your lesson yet?” 

Before Steve could answer, Bucky whipped him across the back of the thighs. A gasp hissed though Steve’s teeth. “Nine.” 

“Well? Have I made myself clear enough?” 

Steve winced as he heard Bucky’s arm lower, but it wasn’t the belt this time. Bucky cupped his ass in his hand, running a nail along the hot, tender skin. 

“Yes.” Steve shuddered and moaned as Bucky drew his fingertips across the stripes. “Mmm, yes. Please, Buck. Harder.” 

“Harder? What’s with you?”

“Please,” Steve cried. “I need you to—”

The next blow came hard enough to jar him, and if Steve wasn’t holding onto the table he would have slipped to the floor with his legs shaking like jelly. 

“Ten,” Steve choked. He was swimming in the heat and the pain and the familiar scent of Bucky—all metal and leather and shoe oil and cigarette smoke. 

Bucky paused. “Are you okay?” 

Steve couldn’t help as a wild, breathless laugh escaped him. “First you whip me, then you ask me if I’m okay? Course I’m okay, Buck, but damn if it don’t hurt like hell.” 

“Good. It’s supposed to.” He paused a moment, not hesitant but waiting. 

“Go on then,” Steve said. “Get it over with. No sense in not finishing what you started. I can do this all day.” 

“Is that so?” Bucky’s voice hardened again like glowing hot metal tempered in water. Another lash seared across Steve’s ass, and this time it was different. The previous ones were quick and measured, but this one was slow and fully meant. “Do you have any idea how much I was worried about you?” 

Another strike, perfectly placed. Bucky was panting with exertion, and Steve nearly unraveled at the sound. He closed his eyes and felt the cool wood beneath his palms, his thighs hot and wet, his ass burning and raw. 

“Do you have any idea how painful it is to wonder if the only person I love is going to come home to me in a body bag one day? All because you were too stupid to shut your mouth and mind your own goddamn business!” 

Another blow, stern and bearing more than just the weight of the belt. 

“I’m sorry,” Steve said, feeling smaller than usual. 

“Don’t you dare lie to me, Steve Rogers.” 

A stinging, blinding blow made Steve yelp, and another one clipped him on the back of the thighs. “I didn’t mean to—”

“That’s exactly right!” Bucky punctuated each sentence with a strike of his belt. “You didn’t mean to. You didn’t think. You just went in swinging like always, trusting that blind luck would save you. When are you going to learn that one day you might not be so lucky, that it might not just be a shattered rib or a broken arm?” 

Tears ran down Steve’s face, stinging when they spilled over his split lip. Even through the pain, he couldn’t make himself regret a thing. 

“Do you know why you deserve to be punished?” Bucky said, bringing his arm down with a crack. 

Steve cried out, gripping the table.

“Answer me.” 

“No,” Steve gasped. 

“You’re a good person, Steve.” Bucky was deliberate, with a stinging blow between each sentence. “I know you are. But sometimes you get stuck up in yourself, so selfish… You need to learn how much you mean to other people. Stop and think for a moment.”

The belt came down methodical, intentional. “I’m punishing you because you asked for it. You wanted it. You’re mine, Steve, and I’m yours. We take care of each other, and if this is what you need right now, then I’ll give it to you. Whatever you need, Steve. I’m here. That don’t mean it’ll always be easy, but I promise I’ll be here.” 

Steve whimpered under the flurry of blows, the words cutting into his mind, the belt lashing across his skin. His mind was a whirl, a mess. All he could do was hang onto Bucky’s words like they were the only thing keeping him from drowning. He supposed they were. 

Finally, the belt hit the floor, and Steve opened his eyes. 

“Steve? It’s over.” Bucky’s voice was gentle, worn out. “Come on, and let’s get you cleaned up before supper.” 

“I-I really am sorry, Buck. Honest.”

“I know, Steve. I know. Come here.” 

Steve lifted his tearstained face, bending down to pull up his trousers. 

“Nah, leave those. You won’t need’em.” Bucky pulled Steve close, his lips grazing Steve’s shoulder and then working their way down. 

“Bucky, what’re you—” Steve gasped as Bucky’s tongue flicked over his nipple, sucking it until it was as hard as his cock. “Bucky, please. You ain’t no fairy.” 

“I swear to God, if you call this degrading one more time, I’m going to bend you over again and whip you so hard you won’t sit down for a week. Just trust me, Steve.” 

Steve’s breath hitched as Bucky knelt down, his hands running across Steve’s shoulder blades down to the small of his back and across his tender ass to his hips. 

“Look at me, Steve,” Bucky murmurs. “I’m here for you, I promise. Till the end of the line.” 

Bucky looked up at him through dark eyelashes, those gunpowder blue eyes mesmerizing in the dying afternoon light. He leaned forward, licking slowly up Steve’s shaft and placing his lips over the head, taking Steve’s cock into his mouth with unpracticed movements, but with a smoldering confidence that lit Steve up with an entirely different heat. 

“Buck, you’ve gotta—I can’t—please!” 

Bucky popped off with a smirk. “What happened to that eloquent dirty-mouthed poet, huh? You run out of words, sweetheart?” 

“You son of a—”

“Careful now, or I might just fancy another spanking.” Bucky kept stroking him, smooth and sure, and it didn’t take long until Steve came, barely biting off a cry.  
Bucky stood up, holding Steve in his arms and running his fingers through his hair with light, soft touches. 

“What kinda punishment is this?” Steve mumbled. 

“One you won’t forget,” Bucky said. Then he pulled Steve close, kissing him gently on the forehead. “Now, I’ll get a rag to clean up with. Supper’s ready, so you sit down. I suppose you won’t forget that whipping after that. But it’s over now, and you can rest up.” 

“You ain’t mad still, are you?” Steve asked, quiet. 

“I haven’t decided yet.” Bucky laughed softly. “But I think I got my point across, didn’t I? We’re okay, Stevie. I love you, and that ain’t ever gonna change.” 

“I love you too, Buck.” Steve said drowsily. He wasn’t quite sure he could stay awake for supper, as hot and sticky and worn out as he was. “Till the end of the line.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -From here on out, things stay pretty kinky, so... make of that what you will. Tags will be updated when I post new chapters. 
> 
> -Like and comment if you’re not throwing away your shot!


	6. Resolve

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys try out some conflict management skills that include talking this time.

When Steve woke up, he was sorer than he’d ever been. When he shuffled into the kitchen to make a cup of coffee, Bucky was already there making porridge on the stove. 

“Good morning, Sleeping Beauty,” Bucky said. 

Steve rubbed the sleep out of his eyes. “Since when do you wake up so early on your day off?” 

Bucky shrugged. “Since now, I guess.” 

“You haven’t been having more bad dreams again, have you?” 

Bucky gazed intently at the porridge, scraping the bottom before it burned. 

“Y’know, if you turned it down some it wouldn’t burn so much.” 

Bucky turned around, scowling. “Quit your nagging, will you? I can make porridge just fine. Besides, it’s this pot that’s as thin as a sheet of paper.” 

“Blaming it on the pot, huh?” Steve said lightly, moving next to Bucky to set the coffee pot in the stovetop. 

After breakfast, (it was a little burnt, but Steve didn’t mention it) Steve stood up to clear away the dishes and winced. 

“What’s with you?” Bucky asked. 

“That was one hell of a thrashing you gave me, Buck. That’s what’s the matter with me.” Steve took Bucky’s bowl and put it in the sink reproachfully.

Bucky shrugged. “You didn’t expect it to go away overnight, did you? Anyhow, that’s not what I meant. I want to know why you’ve been spoiling for a fight since last March. You gonna be straight with me this time?” 

“I told you already, there ain’t nothing to tell. Now are you gonna help with the dishes or not?” Steve rolled up his sleeves and grabbed the dishtowel. 

“The dishes can wait.” Bucky stood up, pushing in his chair. “Now, level with me. Why are you so hell-bent on causing trouble for yourself?” 

Steve pointedly started washing a bowl in a basin of water. “I don’t see why you gotta fuss so much over this. It’s not like you haven’t caused plenty of trouble for yourself.” 

“Yeah, well. This ain’t about me, is it? Answer the question already. Why have you been so reckless lately?” 

Steve plunked the clean bowl on the counter. “Fine. You want an answer so bad? I’ll give you one. I was blowing off steam, okay? You do it by going to the bar and picking up dames. I do it by picking fights. You happy now?” 

“Blowing off steam?” Bucky reached for a semi-clean towel and started to dry the dishes Steve was setting on the counter. 

“You know what I’m talking about, Barnes.” 

“Tell me anyway.” 

“I’m cooped up in the house half the time, scrambling to get work done before my deadlines, trying to scrap together some food for the table. I get sick at the whiff of cold—a strong breeze could blow me down right now. I just want to be doing something, Buck. I don’t want to stay inside all day like a housewife. I want to make a difference in the world, not watch it pass me by from the window of this stuffy apartment.” 

“You could get a job if you want. I could find a place that’d hire you, but I don’t think you’d enjoy it very much. Right now, you’re doing what you love—drawing. Even if it is just ads for some weekly. Well, if we saved up a little, you could start taking art classes at the community college. How does that sound?” 

“I don’t want to take any more of your money, Buck.” 

“Hey, we’re in this together, okay? I don’t mind helping a friend out. You got brains, kiddo. You should go to college if you get the chance.” Bucky tapped his head ruefully. “Me, I don’t got no smarts besides street-smarts, and look where that’s gotten me. Besides, even if you think you haven’t done anything special like saving the world, you still make a difference to me.” 

“Aw, don’t get all soft on me now, you sap.” Steve blushed, handing him a plate to dry. “It’s different than that.” 

Bucky pressed his lips together and was silent. 

“Look, if you want to go out again with Nancy, that’s fine and swell. I won’t make anymore fuss about it. We can just go back to the way things were, and it’ll be fine.” 

“It don’t work like that, Steve, and you know it,” Bucky said softly. “That ain’t gonna make them sailors stop calling you a fairy.” 

“Well,” Steve said hotly,” what will?” 

“I don’t know, but I do know this. Me and Nancy never really jived together. I haven’t wanted anyone but you in a long time, Steve. And I figure by now we’re going steady, far as I can tell. So you don’t gotta worry none. I won’t go out getting soused with dames—I got a little more honesty than that.” 

“What are you saying, Buck?” Steve set down the dishrag and looked at him, eyes wide. 

“I’m saying that it’s just you and me. Honest. You’re mine, and I’m yours. All the way, till the end of the line.” 

“Like a couple?” Steve’s voice pitched high, and Bucky laughed. 

“Something like that, yeah. What’dya say?” 

“Yeah.” Steve stood there poleaxed. “Yeah, I’m game.” 

“Good. Now that we got that settled, you better stop getting into fights in back alleys. You’ll never make something of yourself that way. You hear me? You be good, or I’ll have to give you another licking.” 

Steve’s face grew hot, and he grinned. “Don’t tempt me, now. That kinda sweet talk’ll sweep me right off my feet.” 

Bucky’s laugh was muffled as Steve leaned in for a kiss, and the dishes were forgotten. 

*****

At the beginning of May, spring came slowly in fits and starts, showing in the dirty melted snow on the sides of the roads and the tulips in their neighbor’s window box poking out their shoots. Steve told Bucky that if he tracked in muddy snow one more time, it’d be him mopping the whole house up. There was something else blooming though, fragile and soft like a green shoot growing in Steve’s chest. It was a good sort of ache that settled in his chest whenever Bucky came home, planting warm kisses on his mouth. 

Perhaps it was a sort of domestic tranquility that Steve had always wondered if he’d be able to have. There had always been a fuzzy image in his mind of marrying a nice girl who sashayed around the kitchen in a skirt and apron, someone pliable in his arms, but it was wispy and weak. It was nothing compared to the burning that Bucky had kindled in him. This space they had carved out together, this reality they had made. Each time he thought about it left Steve giddy, like looking up and seeing stars in the sky for the first time. 

When Bucky came home for the evening, Steve heard him shuck off his boots and coat at the door. He came into the kitchen in his socks and shirtsleeves to find Steve on the tiles of the kitchen doing crunches while the soup simmered away on the stove. 

“What are you doing?” Bucky asked. 

“What does it look like? Stir the soup, will you?” 

Bucky stepped around him, reaching for the wooden spoon on the counter. Steve continued with his sit-ups, huffing at each one. 

“So, you’re getting into fighting condition?” Bucky laughed. 

When Steve finished, he pushed up, wiping the sweat from his forehead. He glanced over at Bucky, lips parted, face flushed. Steve’s hair was dark with sweat, sticking to the back of his neck. Sweat glinted in the hollow of his neck, and his blue eyes seemed as hot as the flame at the bottom of the burner on the stove. He stood there panting as Bucky stared, licking his lips. 

“Well?” Steve asked. “Spit it out.” 

“It’s nothing,” Bucky said quickly. 

“If you say so. Just stir the soup for me. I’m not finished yet.” Steve jumped back down and started doing push-ups on the kitchen floor, grunting with the effort. After six of them, Bucky squatted down and placed his hand on Steve’s ass, pushing it down parallel with the floor. 

“If you’re going to do it, you ought to do it right,” Bucky said. “No sense in having bad form. And don’t wear yourself out.” 

“I can handle it,” Steve said. His arms trembled as he went down. 

“I don’t doubt you. Tell you what—if you want to train, how about I help you?” 

“What, so you can order me around even more?” Steve panted. 

Bucky shrugged. “If you don’t want the advice of a two-time welterweight champion…” 

Steve huffed out a laugh. “Alright, alright. It’s a deal.” He finished his push-ups a bit shakily and then got up. “Hey, I thought I told you to stir the soup. You had one job.” 

Bucky raised an eyebrow. “You sassing me, Rogers?” 

“I told you to stir the soup, and now it’s burnt.” 

“Now, that’s no way to talk to your instructor. Get down and give me twenty.” 

Steve blanched. “What? See, I give you an inch and you take a mile.”

Bucky cupped a hand to his ear. “What was that? Make it thirty, you said?” 

Steve got down on the floor again and started his push-ups. “Alright, I hear you. This better be worth it though—I’m not doing this for your sake.” When he was finished he flopped down on the cool tile with his cheek against the floor. “So, do I get a reward now?” 

“Reward? If you have the energy for sex, you oughta work harder.” Bucky laughed, and Steve groaned. 

“I knew I shouldn’t have trusted you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -Sorry for the short chapter, but that's just how this one went. The next one'll be longer. You won't wanna miss it. 
> 
> -Thanks for all the comments--they really make my day! Also, thanks for the pancake topping recommendations. They all sound swell--I'll have to try them. 
> 
> -Like and comment if you think that the way to cook potatoes is a bigger infinity than Hazel and Augustus’ infinity. Seriously, though—the ways to cook potatoes are endless.


	7. Heating Up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things get frisky on Steve's birthday.

The days grew hotter and longer, bringing with them that summer-time nostalgia and the scent of hot asphalt. By the time the Fourth of July rolled around, Steve was used to the rigorous exercises Bucky put him through each evening when he got home from his shift. That didn’t mean it was easy, though. Nevertheless, his hard work was paying off—there was more confidence in his step now, even if only he could tell how much stronger he had gotten. There still weren’t any girls flocking to him, but he could live without that. After all, he had Bucky. 

Bucky, who was lounging on the couch with his feet up, flipping through the latest weird fiction magazine. Steve lay beneath him, sweat dripping onto the rug, his shirt off in the stuffy summer air that filled the apartment. He paused his push-ups, propping up on his elbows. 

Bucky turned the page. “Do another fifty sit-ups.” 

“What?” Steve groaned. “You’re not even paying attention!” 

Bucky set the magazine down and looked him in the eyes. “Your form on the last seven push-ups was awful. You’re going to do fifty sit-ups to make up for them. Are you complaining?” 

“No,” Steve muttered, flipping onto his back, “but it’d be nice if you didn’t act like a pill for once.” 

“What was that?” Bucky asked. “I can be a hell of a lot meaner if you want me to. Trust me, I can make a drill sergeant look cute.” 

“No, it’s fine. I believe you,” Steve said quickly, and finished his sit-ups in silence, straining to make his form perfect, even though he couldn’t quite tell if Bucky was watching or not.

When he got up, Bucky leaned over and kissed him gently. “That was good. You’ve made real progress. Now, I heated up some bathwater in the kitchen so you can get clean before the fireworks start. Go wash up.” 

“Thanks,” Steve said. He stripped off his trousers, folding them neatly next to his shirt and placing them on their bed in the bedroom. As he walked back into the kitchen, Bucky whistled. 

“Don’t you look fine,” Bucky said. He got up off the couch, striding over next to Steve near the washbasin. 

Bucky set a hand on Steve’s bare hip and drew him close, kissing him hungrily, lust pooling in his stomach like hot honey. 

“Buck,” Steve said between kisses, “the water’s going to get cold.” 

Bucky’s hand moved to cup his ass, bringing him even closer, and Steve moaned, kissing him deeper as Bucky slipped his thigh between Steve’s legs. His lips parted, and their tongues met, warm and wet. Steve had learned fast, taking all Bucky’s best techniques that he had learned kissing dames and using them against him. Steve really didn’t play fair. He bit at Bucky’s lower lip, his hands wrapping around his shoulders and trailing down Bucky’s spine. 

Bucky shivered as Steve pushed him down into the chair, moving to straddle his legs, still kissing him like he was the air he needed to breathe. Bucky ran his fingers through Steve’s damp hair and licked the tight cord of his neck that was salty with sweat. 

“Y’know, you haven’t had your birthday spankings,” Bucky whispered in his ear, leaning in close. “You won’t grow up proper if you don’t have them.”

Steve’s breath hitched, and he bent over to kiss the curve of Bucky’s shoulder, sucking hard. “Yeah? That so?” 

Bucky moaned as Steve leaned over to suck at his nipple until it was hard. “You are something wicked, Steve. Well, you gonna tell me what you want or leave me guessing?” 

Steve looked up through his lashes with a devilish grin, the kind of innocent sin that made Bucky’s knees weak. “You know what I want, Buck. I want you. I want you to bend me over your knee and spank me hard, really thrash me until I’m hot and needy and wanting and crying out your name in little bits.” Steve’s hand reached lower to wrap around Bucky’s cock. “You punish me so good. And then, when my ass is hot and red and stinging like a son of a bitch, I want you to fuck me hard and fast. I want to feel you inside me, Buck. Filling me up, making me whole, making me feel alive. Making me see the stars. I just want to burn up with you, Buck, like them firecrackers set off tonight.” 

“Jesus Christ,” Bucky gasped. “So you can ask for what you want. A mouth that dirty oughta be washed out with soap.” Bucky laughed. “You’re gorgeous, you know that? You’re really something.” 

“You gonna stop flattering, Buck, or do I have to earn my punishment?” Steve asked. 

“You really want this?” 

“Yes,” Steve said, breathless. 

“Yes what?” Bucky asked, trying to grasp onto the fact of how much Steve wanted him. His head was spinning with it, with the maddening touches Steve’s deft artist hands were making on his body. 

“Yes, sir.” 

Bucky jolted. It wasn’t the answer he was expecting, but it got him hard and wanting. It was sweet to his ears, and he wouldn’t mind hearing it again. “So I have your permission?”  
“Yes,” Steve said impatiently. “Now get on with it and stop being such a coy little tease, or I really will give you a reason to spank me.” 

“Alright then,” Bucky said. “If you want it so bad.” He bent Steve over his lap, trying to ignore Steve’s hard cock between his thighs. “Count out loud, or I’ll start all over.” 

Steve nodded, gripping his knee. Bucky gave him a slap, enjoying the ringing smack of it. 

“One,” Steve said, and raised his head. “Is that all you got, Buck? The schoolmarm hit harder than that.” 

Bucky swung his arm down with enough force to hurt his hand. 

“Two—now that’s more like it.” 

“When did you get so cheeky?” Bucky asked. “If you don’t stop smarting off, I’ll get my belt and we’ll see who’s talking then.” 

“Oh really? So you admit you aren’t strong enough to really thrash me yourself?” 

“Is that a challenge?” Bucky’s voice was low. He spanked Steve on the same spot as before, feeling him squirm. 

“Ha, there’s my Buck.” 

“You want me to start all over? Cause if I do, you can bet I won’t be using my hand.” 

“Three,” Steve said quickly. 

Bucky struck him hard and fast, watching his skin turn bright pink, and feeling Steve shift against his thigh as he counted more breathlessly with each strike. 

“Oh, Buck, that’s it—ten—that’s it. God, Buck. Ah, eleven.” 

“You do like to be punished, don’t you?” Bucky smirked. “Such a good, Catholic boy. I haven’t seen you this worked up since that mean old nun gave you the lashing of your life after you punched Tommy on the playground.” 

Steve snatched a ragged gasp as Bucky dragged a nail across his tender skin. He smoothed a hand across Steve’s red ass, feeling Steve’s heat. 

“You’re so lovely for me, Stevie. All splayed out like this. What a sight. I oughta just let you sit here and let you think about how saucy you’ve been lately. How about that?” 

“Bucky, you devil! Just finish it already and stop teasing.” 

“Now you’re the one giving orders?” Bucky raked his nails across Steve’s ass, watching him twist. 

“No, no! Please, Bucky. Please.”

“Oh, so you can ask nicely. Please what?” 

“Please, just spank me already,” Steve snapped. “Stop taking your sweet time and whip me already!” 

Bucky laughed. “Well, I suppose that’s as close to begging as you’ll ever get. Stand up then.” 

“What are you—”

Bucky gave him a hard strike, and Steve yelped. 

“I said stand up,” Bucky said. “Are you going to obey me or not?” 

Steve straightened up, cheeks flushed. Bucky looked him over—he didn’t weigh a hundred pounds soaking wet, but he was the most gorgeous thing Bucky had ever seen. Bright blue eyes, and a way of looking at him that could set fire to damp wood. That odd, determined look he wore so well—the one that would make Bucky follow him to hell and back, no questions asked. 

“Bend over the couch,” Bucky said, walking into the kitchen. He grabbed a large, clean wooden soupspoon out of the top drawer and went into the living room where Steve was waiting. 

“Since I’m so good at burning things, I figured I’d whip you until your ass burns so bad you’ll be begging me for mercy. How’s that sound, Mr. Stoic?” 

Steve twisted around and grinned. “You’re terrible at puns. Besides, I can do this all day, and you lost the bet.” 

“We’ll see how keen you are for winning after you catch the tail end of this spoon.” 

Steve swallowed hard, and when the flat of the spoon came down with a crack, he yelped. “Twelve.” 

Bucky whipped him red and raw with stinging blows over his ass and the tops of his thighs. The smack of the spoon wasn’t as loud as his hand, but it was harder, and he watched Steve writhe under the blows. Steve whimpered and moaned unashamedly until Bucky began to wonder if it was even possible for him to be quiet. 

“Now, be good and hold still,” Bucky said. “You wanted this, remember?” 

Steve inhaled sharply, and when the next blow came, he let out a shuddering cry. “Ah, Buck, please. I want you, I want you so much!” 

“Not so saucy now, are you?” Bucky swung with his whole arm, still feeling his hand ache from the spanking he had given Steve. This was much more effective, and he liked to see Steve squirming and red, splayed out over the couch’s arm. 

“Buck,” he whimpered, clenching the edge of the couch. “Oh, James! James!” 

Bucky whipped him until there was nothing but cries and howls from Steve’s lips, until he was choking on Bucky’s name. Bucky had never loved his name more than when he heard it from Steve’s lips, so intimate and sweet. 

He set the spoon down and went to the arm of the couch, tilting Steve’s head up. “Hey, are you good?” 

Steve looked at him, eyes watering and face red. “Never been better, Buck. That’s some hell of a birthday present.” His voice cracked, and he sunk down his head in either laughter or embarrassment. 

“You just wait. I ain’t finished yet. Come on to the bedroom, and I’ll have you crying my name again.” 

“Sounds like a swell plan,” Steve said faintly, taking Bucky’s hand as he swung him up. 

Bucky stopped, pulling him close. “Really, are you okay?” 

“I am, I promise.” Steve smiled, leaning in to kiss Bucky softly on the mouth. “I’m just a bit worn out is all. You’ve worked me hard all day.” 

“Well, don’t quit on me now, soldier.” Bucky laughed, leading him to the bedroom. “I’d never think that such a scrawny fellow could take such a thrashing.” 

“I’d never have thought that such a weak looking punk like you could pack such a wallop.” Steve laid on the bed gingerly as Bucky closed the blinds and stripped off his clothes.

Bucky straddled Steve’s hips, propping himself up on his elbows. “I’m gonna make you feel so good, Stevie. I promise.” He knelt down, lowering his head between Steve’s thighs. “Is this good?” 

Steve shifted, arching a little. “Yeah.” He looked away, biting his lip. “Just stings, s’all.” 

Bucky caressed his hips and the inside of his thighs, and Steve shivered. “Trust me, you’ll forget all about your thrashing in a moment.” 

Steve knew better to question the morality of their sexual acts by now, and if he was still uneasy at the thought of Bucky sucking him off, he didn’t say anything. But Bucky shifted up and kissed him on the mouth, slow and gentle, feeling the warm give of Steve’s mouth and the rocking of his hips under Bucky’s thighs. Bucky kissed the hollow of Steve’s throat, and his collarbone, and flicked his tongue over Steve’s nipple the way Steve always teased him just so. Steve arched a little more, grabbing at Bucky’s shoulders. Steve’s eyes fluttered closed as Bucky worked his way slowly down Steve’s body, sucking at Steve’s hard stomach and the bones of his hips, and finally settling on the tip of his hard cock. Then he pulled up, and Steve opened his eyes with a soft noise of frustration. 

“What is it?” Steve asked. “Do you still want to—”

“Of course I do, but I thought of something.” Bucky slid off the bed and knelt at the edge of it, tugging Steve up until he stood in front of him. “See? Better now?” 

Steve nodded, rubbing at his sore ass. “Yeah.” He grinned. “You look pretty swell on your knees. Buck. I could get used to seeing you like that.” 

Bucky snorted. “I don’t know how you can still talk like that after being whipped so soundly. You really are something, Steve Rogers.” 

“I know, Bucky Barnes. Now are you going to just kneel there looking pretty, or are you going to suck me off?” 

Bucky leaned forward and licked the length of his shaft. “Don’t make me regret this.”

Steve made a low noise in the back of his throat. Bucky looked up as Steve’s eyes fluttered, and Bucky felt the shiver run through Steve’s body. It was gorgeous, the way Steve tilted his head back with his eyes closed, moaning softly at each stripe Bucky licked up his shaft. When Bucky took Steve’s cock into his mouth, Steve grabbed his hair, twisting it in his fingers and giving little tugs that drove Bucky wild. Bucky moaned, which made Steve pull even harder on his hair. 

“Oh, God, Bucky. That’s so good. Your tongue feels so good right there.” 

Bucky kept making soft noises as Steve’s fingers ran through his hair, running his tongue around Steve’s cock and down the sides, pressing his lips against it and sucking at the skin until Steve’s knees nearly buckled. 

“Bucky, yes. Yes, keep doing that—just a little more, yes—I love the way you—ah, ah.” 

Bucky took his cock in a little further, and wrapped his hand around the base of Steve’s shaft, stroking him as he sucked. It wasn’t perfect, but the way Steve was writhing and moaning and biting off his name, half-sobbing with pleasure, he thought it was all right. 

“Buck, I’m gonna—pull back, I’m gonna—” 

The moment Bucky pulled off him, Steve came with short gasps and a high, cut-off cry. Steve sank onto the bed, panting, lashes fluttering open and eyes glazed with lust. Bucky sat next to him, rubbing his aching knees. 

“M’sorry,” Steve said. “That didn’t do much for you, did it? Let me make it up to you.” 

“Hey, we ain’t keeping score.” Bucky leaned over and kissed him softly. “There’ll be plenty of other times. You’re tired—I don’t want you falling asleep when you’re going down on me.” 

Steve gave a tired laugh. “Okay. But I promise I’ll show you a good time later.” He gave Bucky a wicked grin and winked. “There’s something I’ve been meaning to try.”

Bucky laughed in surprise, and nuzzled his cheek. “Well, I guess I’ll be looking forward to it, then. Now, let’s get you cleaned up, and we’ll take a nap before the fireworks start. I’ll heat the water back up—Lord knows you need a shower now. And since it’s your birthday, I got some green tomatoes that aren’t ripe yet from Mrs. Harrison—they ain’t apples or nothing, but they’ll make one hell of a pie.” 

“That sounds swell, Buck.” Steve said dreamily, and sank back onto the mattress with a creak. “Just swell.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -So, apparently Steve's dog tags in the MCU say he's Protestant, so I'm I guess I'm sacrificing a little accuracy here for narrative consistency. 
> 
> -I'll try to line the story up with the MCU cannon, some comics, and history, but no promises. This shit's not very clear cut sometimes. I'll do my best. 
> 
> -I swear, it's gonna get more creative from here on out. I'm not exactly a one trick pony (I hope). 
> 
> -Like and comment because borscht is the best food on Earth. Also, I absolutely adore ya'lls comments. Every. Single. One.


	8. Lipstick

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve and Bucky go on a date to the ice cream parlor.

As the days got hotter, Steve’s blood seemed to boil. By August, he felt like a soda bottle all shaken up and ready to explode. There was a fizzy, restless unease in his belly that wouldn’t settle no matter how much he tried to take Bucky’s advice to calm down. The summer heat was merciless in the cramped, stuffy apartment, so most days Steve sat on the fire escape in a sliver of shade with his sketchpad in his lap. 

He was so wrapped up in his work that he didn’t realize it when Bucky came home. Bucky popped out onto the balcony, glancing around and shading his eyes against the sun. 

“Stevie, I’m home!” 

“I can see that,” Steve said. 

Bucky bent down and snatched one of Steve’s sketches, fanning himself with it. His undershirt was soaked with sweat and stuck to the curve of his back, and his cheeks were red with sun. 

“Cut that out,” Steve said. “I need that.” 

“Come on, Steve. Take a break. It’s so hot. Tell you what—I got paid today, so let’s pop on down to the corner store. I’m craving an ice cold Coca Cola. We can stop and get some ice cream on the way. We’ll make it a date.” 

Steve perked up at the thought. “That does sound swell, but I got a lot of work to do. These sketches need to be finished by—” 

“What part of take a break don’t you understand? I bet you haven’t moved in hours. Now come on, they’ll still be here when we get back.”

Steve let Bucky pull him up and took back his sketch from Bucky’s hand, putting it with the others where it belonged. “Oh, all right. But we aren’t going to the dancing hall tonight. I’m too busy for that, and besides, every time we go all the girls flock to you like you’re the last man alive.” 

Bucky winked. “Jealous, Stevie? You know I only got eyes for you.” 

Steve smiled and punched him on the shoulder. “Come on, you smooth talking bastard. Let’s go get some ice cream.” 

“Now you’re talking. Last one down the stairs pays!” Bucky bolted out the door, and Steve chased after him with a string of curses. 

Bucky didn’t get much of a head start though, because he realized that his shoes were still in the apartment. By the time he reached the bottom floor panting, Steve was leaning on the railing, smirking. “You said you’re paying, Buck? Why, what a gentleman.” 

“Shaddup,” Bucky grumbled. “You just got lucky. See, this is what I get for listening to you and taking my shoes off by the door.” 

They walked to the corner store in the fading evening heat. Children were racing in the streets, pretending to be Jesse Owens at the Berlin Olympics. Above them, women were hanging laundry to dry on the washing lines that crossed the alleyways from apartment to apartment. The air was still, as if the whole city was holding its breath. Steve wondered if Bucky was right—maybe he was getting riled for no reason. 

At the corner store, Bucky bought two bottles of Coca Cola, and then they went down to the ice cream shop down the street. Bucky bought two vanilla ice cream cones and when they sat down at the booth, he popped open the cap of the Coca Cola, drank some of it, and pushed his ice cream into the bottle. 

“What the hell are you doing?” Steve asked. 

Bucky just grinned, put the cap back on, and shook it up. “Making the snazziest drink in all of Brooklyn, of course. You’re just mad you didn’t think of it first.” 

Steve shook his head and laughed. “You really are something, Bucky Barnes.” 

“You gonna lick that ice cream cone or let it melt all over your hand?” Bucky gave a wicked grin that sent Steve glancing over his shoulder, certain that someone would see them and just know how madly in love they were, as plain as the farmer’s tan where Bucky had rolled up his shirtsleeves. 

“With all the sweets you’re eating, you’re going to have no stomach for supper.” Steve said. 

“You know I can always find room for more food.” 

Steve leaned over and tapped Bucky’s head. “I’m sure it all goes up into your hollow head where your brain’s supposed to be.” 

They lingered over ice cream and sodas as long as they could, talking and laughing, with Bucky on his perpetual quest to make Steve laugh so hard he squirted soda up his nose. On the way home they strolled in silence, Steve licking the melted ice cream off his fingers and Bucky trying not to stare. Steve couldn’t shake the feeling that something was coming that would end this sticky drowsy summer heat. Even the end of the world couldn’t keep him away from Bucky, but he worried all the same. 

“Well, you’re awfully quiet today,” Bucky said. “What’s with you?” 

“S’nothing.” Steve scuffed his shoes on the pavement. 

“Nothing? You’ve been restless all week, even going on runs after we finish training. I don’t know how you have so much energy to spare.” 

“I just want to be… ready, I guess.” Steve glanced away towards where the children were still racing in the streets. One girl was giggling with her braids and skirts flying, outstripping the rowdy crowd of boys who were hot on her heels. 

Bucky stared at Steve. “Ready? For what?” 

“I don’t know.” 

“War?” Bucky asked, his voice turning hard. “Is that it? Don’t tell me you’re caught up in that war going on in Spain. That’s got nothing to do with us.” 

“There may be something bigger, Buck. Think past here, Brooklyn, America. The world is changing. We gotta change with it. The Great War may not have been the war to end all wars, what with Hitler marching into the Rhineland like he owns the place.” 

“Germany. Spain. What do they have to do with us, Steve? Is Hitler going to come take away our paychecks? America should mind its own damn business before we get dragged into another fight with a price higher than we want to pay.” 

“Would you think past yourself for one moment?” Steve snapped. “It’s our job as Americans to fight for justice and freedom, no matter where they’re being threatened.”   
“Again with this ‘justice’ bullshit of yours. You’re just young and spoiling for blood. Picking fights in back alleys ain’t enough for you, is it? Goddamn it, I can’t protect you from yourself, Steve!” 

“You aren’t that much older or wiser than me, so don’t act like you’re all that,” Steve said. He shoved his hands in his pockets and walked a little faster to keep up with Bucky’s long, angry strides. 

“Yeah, well you ain’t got a monopoly on justice, so quit acting all high and mighty.” 

“It’s not a crime to be patriotic,” Steve said. “You’re just cynical and jaded.” 

“No, I’m realistic. You think war is something noble, but it’s not. It’s just hunger and pain and bloodshed, and a way of picking up dames if you survive it.” 

“How do you know what war is like? You’ve never been in one.” Steve stopped in front of their apartment, pausing on the stairs. 

Bucky sneered. “Yeah well, my pop was. Oh, is that it? You want to be a martyr, just like your pop in the Great War, don’t you? Once you get shipped home in a body bag, you want me to ask the Pope if he’ll make you a saint, and then you can really be as holy as you pretend to be.” 

Steve took a wild swing at him, but Bucky leaned back right in time. Steve wished he’d punch him right back, but Bucky just stood there with either disdain or hurt on his face. Knowing Bucky, it was probably both. 

“You’re gonna have to get a hell of a lot better at being a soldier, or them Nazi’s are gonna spit you on a bayonet faster than you can blink,” Bucky said caustically, and took the stairs two at a time to their apartment. 

Steve stayed and slumped on the steps with his head in his hands, burning with indignant anger and summer heat, wishing with everything he had that Bucky would have evened it out and taken a swing at him. That, he could take. But he couldn’t take Bucky’s disdain, his cold silence, the lack of affection that Steve had grown so used to that he wasn’t sure if he could live without it. 

*****

Sure enough, Bucky didn’t say a word to him when they woke up, and at supper the only sounds were the clinking of their spoons against the sides of the bowls and Bucky slurping his soup too loudly. Steve cleared away the dishes after supper, and Bucky went to the front door to slip on his shoes. 

“Where are you going this late at night?” Steve called from the kitchen. 

“Out. Where do you think? I’m gonna go get soused.” 

“Wait.” Steve dried his hands and came into the living room. “Don’t go. I’m sorry, Buck. I really am.” 

“No harm no foul,” Bucky said bitterly. 

“Please, Buck. Don’t shut me out. I’m sorry.” 

“I know you are.” Bucky opened the door and went into the warm night, but there was still a chill in the air. 

After that, Steve wasn’t sure how to fix what he had broken. It wasn’t like a bloody nose or a bruise that faded, and he didn’t know what to do that would make Bucky forgive him. Over the next few days Bucky softened, but there was still a distance between them that hadn’t been there before. Bucky still kissed him goodnight, but it was quick and chaste and routine with no fire or heat behind it. Steve would rather take a hard whipping than this impossible silence. He wasn’t sure just how long Bucky would keep up this punishment, but he knew that when it came right down to it, Bucky was at least as stubborn as himself. It wasn’t a fight he could win swinging blind. 

Life went back to normal, but Steve felt hollow. Without Bucky’s affection, he couldn’t stop the crushing weight of all their bills from overwhelming him, or the endless tirade of canned foods, bland pasta, and bitter coffee. He could face the whole world with Bucky by his side, but without him, Steve wasn’t even sure he could face himself. 

*****

It was a hot night when Bucky shook off Steve’s arm from his waist. Steve stirred in bed. “Buck?” 

“I’m just hot,” Bucky mumbled. “That’s all.” 

Steve sat up in bed. “I don’t think that’s the only reason.” 

Bucky turned over on his side. “Look, we can’t do this now in the middle of the night.” 

“Why not? You don’t have work tomorrow. Tomorrow’s Sunday.” 

“You’re such a mule, Rogers. Just let it lie already. It’s over and done with.” 

“You say that, but you’ve been acting all antsy, like when you were getting ready to dump Maria.” 

“I’m not—Jesus, Steve, is that what this is about?” Bucky sat up and ran a hand through his hair. Steve could just make out the glint of his eyes in the moonlight coming through the open window. 

“I’m not wrong.” 

Bucky laughed dryly in a way that made Steve bristle. “Yeah, you are. I told you a million times already—it’s fine. I’m fine. We’re fine. Stop making a mountain out of a damn molehill.” 

“I’m not some nagging woman of yours, so don’t brush me off like that. I know there’s something going on. Now, are you going to tell me about it, or are we going to stay up all night arguing about whether or not we’re arguing?” 

“Fine,” Bucky said. “Have it your way. You want to argue and shout and yell like we’re some married couple chained together for twenty years?” 

“That ain’t what I said, and you know it. I just want you to level with me, and stop…” 

“Stop what? I’m not doing anything.” 

“That’s it! You’re not doing anything. You’re not laughing, or making your stupid puns, or dancing to the wireless in the middle of the living room. You’re not even talking to me. You’re just sitting over there stewing.” 

“We can’t all be happy little daisies all the time, Steve. I thought you’d understand that.” 

“No, that’s not what I mean.” 

“What, then? What do you mean? What do you want from me?” 

Steve sat there with his fists balled up in the blanket. “I don’t know.” His voice cracked, and he sat there angry and miserable and falling apart and grasping for words in the dark. “I don’t know.” 

“I don’t know either, Steve.” 

“I just want us to be okay again,” Steve said. 

“So do I,” Bucky said quietly. 

“Well, tell me what I can do then! I’ll do anything. Please, just tell me.” 

“I’m being honest when I say I don’t know. I ain’t trying to hold a grudge, I swear.” Bucky turned towards him and took his hand. “Look at me, Steve. I know I said something stupid, and you did something stupid. That’s all there is too it. Quit worrying your pretty little head before it explodes. You’re sorry, and I’m sorry too.” 

“You are?” Steve paused, unsure if it was an apology or just another worn out argument. 

“Yes, a thousand times yes. And I forgive you Stevie, so quit beating yourself up about it. Go see a priest or something if it’s eating you up so bad.” 

“I think this is enough forgiveness for now,” Steve said. “I won’t push my luck.” 

Bucky drew him close and pressed a kiss to his forehead, and then tilted his head up and kissed him slow and gentle on the mouth. “You’re still mine, Steve Rogers, and I’m yours. Nothing is going to change that.” 

As Steve drew back, he told himself that he was imagining the hint of cheap perfume on Bucky’s skin and the taste of faint taste of lipstick on his mouth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -Hi ya'll, sorry for the late update -- I've had company over and it's been busy. 
> 
> -Like and comment if you think Steve should take a break and go away with Bucky for the summer (yes that's a Hamilton reference).


	9. End of the Line

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky makes a huge mistake and pays for it.

It was early September when Steve’s suspicions were confirmed. He tried to shove the thoughts out of his mind, telling himself that he was just overthinking things. If Bucky said they were okay, than he would take his word for it. But that didn’t change the fact that Bucky still went out drinking and came back drunker than Steve would like. It didn’t change the fact that Bucky still went to the dance hall and came back a tad too disheveled. Steve told himself that he was imagining things, but he didn’t quite believe himself. 

But their relationship returned to normal, and life moved on. Steve tried to move on too. There was no sense worrying about things he couldn’t change. What was coming was coming, and he would face it when he got there. He was no coward—he could hold his own. Even with all these thoughts, he still wasn’t prepared for the night Bucky came home even more drunk than usual and shattered everything he had thought he had known. It was as if the rumors of war had taken shape, and Germany had carpet bombed New York city overnight. It swept him off his feet. 

Bucky came staggering in, tripping over his feet as he shook off his shoes. Steve could smell the whiskey and cigarette smoke on him from clear across the room. When he saw Steve his eyes widened. 

“I thought you’d be asleep by now,” Bucky said. “It’s awfully late.” 

“And I thought you’d be home before now.” Steve eyed his undershirt. The buttons were mismatched and unbuttoned completely at the throat. Bucky tugged his coat closer around his waist, but it didn’t hide the lipstick stain on the corner of his collar. Steve’s stomach twisted. “Where the hell have you been, Bucky?” 

“Out. Dancing.” Bucky’s throat flashed. 

“Tell me the truth.” Steve’s voice was quiet, but Bucky heard him just fine. “I don’t want any more lies.” 

“It ain’t a lie. I was at the dancing hall, and there was this fine-looking blonde. Ida, or Ellen. I don’t remember. We had a few drinks. Danced.” 

“And?” 

Bucky looked away. “She asked me to walk her home, and then asked me to come up to her apartment ‘cause the door jammed sometimes and she couldn’t get it open… So I went up to help her, and she asked me inside. I should have said no, but I didn’t.” 

“I see.” Steve burned, and it took all his self-control to stay still and calm. 

“No, wait! I didn’t—I mean, I… It wasn’t like that. Not really. Sure, we were kissing and then she went down and… and started sucking me off. But it ain’t like we had real sex or nothing—”

“Oh, so that’s not ‘real’ sex? I’ll remember that,” Steve said darkly. 

“No, that’s not what I meant! I didn’t, I mean I—I pulled off, Steve! The moment she went down, I couldn’t, I just had to leave. I didn’t mean for it to go that far. I grabbed my coat and went out the door, and that’s all there is too it! It was just a moment’s mistake! Please, believe me. I’m real sorry.” Bucky stood there, withering under Steve’s gaze. 

“Not as sorry as you’re gonna be,” Steve growled. “And don’t give me those fucking lies! You’ve been coming home smelling like cheap perfume for a week now.” 

Bucky blanched. “No,” he said weakly. “No, no, no. That was just from dancing, Steve! Please, you gotta believe me! Tonight’s the only night I ever messed up like this.” 

“And the lipstick?” Steve hissed. 

Bucky flushed a deep red. “I—I put that on myself. For you. Nancy left a tube in my jacket pocket one day before we stopped seeing each other, and I thought, ‘why the hell not?’ I thought maybe you’d like it. Please, believe me. It’s the honest truth.”

Bucky took a step closer to Steve and reached out to put his hand on Steve’s shoulder. 

“Don’t.” Steve’s eyes flashed. “I can’t deal with you right now. We need to talk, but I can’t do this right now. I’ll deal with you tomorrow, after you get home.” Steve spun around and slammed the bedroom door behind him, loud enough to rattle the frame. Bucky slept on the couch again, feeling all too used to it. 

*****

Bucky went to work feeling nervous, and the feeling stuck with him the entire day. When he came home, Steve already had dinner on the table. They ate in tense silence, and by the time Steve insisted on washing the dishes Bucky was about to burst. There was a hard set to Steve’s jaw that at any other time would have made Bucky aroused, but now Bucky was filled with a heady fear and unease about what awaited him. But Steve had never been one for the silent treatment, and when the dishes were done he turned toward Bucky with a stern look. 

“Come here,” Steve said. His voice was low, and it sent a shiver down Bucky’s spine. “Now, look me in the eyes. You broke your word—you promised me that it would be just us. If you want this—whatever this is—to continue, you’re going to have to make a choice.” 

Bucky swallowed hard. “I’m really sorry, Steve. It won’t happen again, I promise. Please, let me stay with you. I’ll do whatever it takes. I want to stay with you.” 

“So do I, but actions have consequences. I know you’re only human, and we all make mistakes, but I can’t just ignore this.” 

“I ain’t asking you to.” 

“Good. I’m going to give you what you deserve, and that’ll settle the whole affair. Do you understand? After this, it’ll be done. Is that what you want?” 

“Yes.” 

“I’m going to punish you, and you’re not going to enjoy it. Do I have your permission?” 

“Yes.” Bucky nodded with his heart in his throat. His skin was hot and dry with a cocktail of shame and guilt and the residue of his raging whiskey hangover. 

“Alright. I figure this is only fair. After all, you gave me a whipping for being selfish, so I oughta be able to do the same. Maybe it’ll teach you something that running my mouth couldn’t. I’m going to whip you hard and good, and you think about what you’ve done. Now, you can tell me to stop any time, but I’m going to give you what you deserve. Do you understand me?” 

“Yes.” 

Steve raised an eyebrow. “That all you can say?” 

“Yes, sir. I understand.” If it had been any other time, Bucky would have saluted and given him a cheeky grin, but this time he was dead serious. 

Steve’s face didn’t soften as he slid the belt from his waist. “Bend over the table, and drop your drawers. Don’t expect any mercy, either—I know exactly how much this is going to hurt, and you deserve every bit of it. Since this is a punishment, I want you to count every blow. Any swearing or disobedience and I’ll add on three extra strokes. Is that clear?” 

“Yes.” Bucky obeyed, feeling exposed. He never thought that he’d be on the receiving end, but he trusted Steve more than he trusted anyone else. And then again, he never thought he’d be having sex with a guy. Never thought he’d be so hopelessly in love with one, either. But here he was, and here Steve was. Steve really was something special. A pang went through Bucky at the thought that he had torn apart the perfect life that they had made together. How stupid was he not to see how perfect Steve was for him? How stupid was he to throw it all away? 

The first blow came unexpectedly, with more force than Bucky thought possible from Steve. Bucky was stunned, and then the pain set in like heated barbed wire across his skin. He hesitated, still having a little more pride than was good for him. Steve waited a moment, and then sent another stinging blow across Bucky’s ass, just as hard as the last one. 

“That’s one,” Steve said. “Count them.” 

Bucky hadn’t remembered the slap of the belt being quite so loud. Steve lashed him a third time across the back of his thighs so hard that Bucky hissed in pain. “Fuck, Steve. Jesus. That’s two.” 

“What did I say, Barnes? You just earned yourself three more strokes. I can do this all day, so you’d better learn to behave.” 

He really did deserve this. He could feel the anger in Steve that radiated from him with a fierce heat. Bucky gasped as the belt came down again. “Three.” 

Unlike Bucky, who had had no clue how to give a whipping, Steve seemed to know exactly how much Bucky could take. His blows were precise and hard, and between every blow he paused to let Bucky feel the full sting of it, the full weight of it. 

“Do you have any idea how selfish you were being?” Steve lashed out. “Don’t answer that. I know you don’t. You never stop to think about those kinds of things.” 

“Four,” Bucky said quietly, wincing as Steve whipped him again on the same spot. “Five.” 

“I’m disappointed in you, James.” Steve whipped him after every sentence, and Bucky barely had time to count before Steve continued his lecture. “You promised me. You told me that everything was okay, and then you went behind my back with some floozy because you were soused.”

“Eight,” Bucky choked. His eyes were shut tight, so that Steve was everything—the sound of his harsh, angry breaths, his words that left Bucky defenseless. All of Bucky’s walls that he had so carefully erected came crumbling down, leaving him raw and vulnerable and helpless. He hated himself for being so weak, so selfish. Why was Steve doing this, when he could have ended it all in a moment? Why was Steve choosing this, of all things? To stay with him? 

“I know your mama didn’t raise you to be a liar or a cheater. James Buchanan Barnes, you should be ashamed of yourself.” Steve ended his lecture with a stunning blow that made Bucky whimper. 

“Ten,” Bucky cried out. He waited, unsure if Steve was done and unwilling to ask. 

Steve stood there panting, angry in that self-righteous way that always lit his eyes up like glass in the sun. Bucky didn’t dare look back, but he knew the kind of disapproving look Steve would be wearing, with his eyebrows knit together and his jaw tight. He’d seen that look enough times to know. 

Steve drew a deep breath and let it out slowly. “If I wasn’t enough for you, you should have told me instead of going behind my back and lying to me by saying that everything was okay. I thought we could be honest with each other.” 

“I’m sorry.” Bucky bit back another excuse, waiting for the belt to come down again. 

He wanted to say that Steve was his everything, that Steve was enough, would always be enough. That Steve was too much sometimes, that he didn’t know if he even deserved to be with someone like him when all Bucky did was destroy the things he loved. Destroy himself. He had wanted to poison his mind with alcohol and cigarettes and leave it all behind, leave behind the fears that one day Steve would see right through him and leave him. He didn’t know why he couldn’t admit it to himself sooner, that Steve was the only person he had ever wanted this bad, bad enough that he was deathly afraid of what might happen if he couldn’t have him. Bucky didn’t know why he had been so blind. 

“I know you are, but sometimes just a sorry doesn’t cut it. You should know that mistakes have consequences.” 

Bucky swallowed hard as Steve raised his arm and brought it down with a crack. Steve whipped him again and again with the same hard, measured blows until Bucky was twisting and squirming against the table with shuddering, sobbing breaths. Bucky didn’t know what number he was on by the time Steve stopped, panting and breathless. Bucky raised up, but Steve placed a firm hand at the small of his back and slid his belt back into the loops of his pants. Bucky sobbed with relief, tears streaming down his face. 

“I’m not done yet. You have three more strikes, remember?” 

Bucky turned back to look at Steve, then rested his forehead on the table and let out a strangled noise that was half a whimper and half an exasperated groan. 

“Don’t give me that look, Barnes. It’s your own damn fault. Now, stay here and don’t move.”

Bucky didn’t dare disobey him this time, even when he heard the door shut and footsteps on the stairs down to the ground floor. It wasn’t long before Steve came back inside and stood by his side next to the kitchen table. Bucky turned around to see Steve running his hand along a green switch he had cut off one of the trees downstairs. 

Steve gave him a wicked look that Bucky could have sworn was a grin. “Don’t look so surprised. These three extra strokes aren’t going to be any easier. Now, turn around and bend over. Count them.” 

Bucky obeyed him, trying not to tense up. The switch whistled, and Bucky howled at the sting of it. “One.” 

Steve waited to let the sting set in. The second lash came quicker than the first, and Bucky rocked his hips with stuttering whimpers, biting back a string of curses that he was sure would result in more strikes. 

“Two,” Bucky said. 

Steve whistled. “Your ass looks like the good old Star Spangled banner with all these stripes.” 

Bucky wasn’t sure that he trusted Steve’s humor any more than his stern anger. Steve wasn’t one to hold a grudge, but surely he was still angry. Or maybe it was that he was enjoying punishing Bucky? Bucky shivered at the thought, wondering how Steve fooled the rest of the world into thinking he was an angel. 

The last lash came down the hardest yet, and Bucky cried out, unable to hold anything back anymore. “Three.” 

Steve tossed the switch onto the kitchen floor and stepped forward, running his fingers lightly across Bucky’s stinging ass. Bucky hissed, and Steve gave a short, hard laugh, a kind that could cut through glass. Bucky winced, starting to prefer his self-righteous lectures to whatever dangerous black humor this was. 

“You’re going to feel this tomorrow, and the week after that. It’s done, Buck. Stand up and look at me.” 

Bucky straightened up, trying to stop his face from flushing in embarrassment as he gingerly slid on his clothes. Even though Steve was shorter than him, it didn’t make him any less intimidating. 

“Is that enough of a punishment?” Steve asked him. 

“Yes,” Bucky whispered. 

“Good. Then it’s settled.”

“But—” Bucky paused, and Steve raised an eyebrow. “Don’t you need… time? To process?” 

Steve sighed. “I don’t want to stew on it, Buck. You said you were sorry, and I believe you. It’s even now. Even Steven.” He smiled wryly, but Bucky wasn’t sure if the smile reached his eyes. 

“Are you sure?” 

“Do you want me to be angry with you? Because I can manage that.” 

“No,” Bucky said quickly. “It’s okay. I promise I won’t do anything so stupid ever again.” 

Steve laughed. “Don’t make promises you can’t keep, Buck. You ain’t the sharpest tool in the shed. You’re at least as reckless as me.” 

“I’m serious, Steve.” Bucky looked into his eyes. “Long as we’re together you’re the only one for me. You can count on it. You can trust me. I’ll give you all the time you need. I’ll wait for you, if that’s what you want. I know I messed up, but I’ll make it up to you.” 

“Oh, Buck.” Steve reached out and brushed his thumb against Bucky’s lip where he had bitten it. “I’m with you till the end of the line.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -Stay tuned for... actual WWII era things? Idk, this fic is at least five times longer than I thought it was going to be, so why not make it a little longer? 
> 
> -Chronologically, things are going to pick up some serious speed. Hold onto your socks, folks. 
> 
> -Like and comment if you can’t Say No to This!


	10. Christmas Eve

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's Christmas Eve, 1936, so Steve and Bucky engage in some well deserved celebration.

When Bucky came in the door, Steve was just finishing sweeping the living room. Bucky set down his shopping bags and picked Steve up, twirling him around the room. 

“Guess what, Stevie?” Bucky planted a kiss on Steve’s lips before he could answer. 

“What?” Steve asked as Bucky set him down again. 

“I got a Christmas bonus! We’ll be eating like kings tonight—I got a bona fide turkey this year, not some scrawny skin and bones chicken. You can cook it up real good, can’t you, with all the fixings and the stuffing?” 

Steve laughed. “Course I can. I’m glad, Buck. Things seem to finally be looking up.” 

“You betcha! Johnny down at the factory even says he got himself a shiny new automobile! Now, I don’t know about no automobile, but I bet you’ll like my gift for you.” Bucky winked, and went to the kitchen to put away the groceries. 

After dinner, Steve boiled water for a bath. When they were clean and somewhat warmer, Steve settled onto the couch with his sketchbook, and Bucky laid reading a pulp magazine with his head against with his head against Steve’s stomach while the radio softly played Christmas tunes. 

Steve leaned over his sketchbook, running his fingers through Bucky’s hair. “Your hair’s getting pretty long. Should I cut it?” 

Bucky shrugged. “It’s fine. I can slick it back with pomade, and besides, I kinda like it this way.” 

“That so?” Steve smiled. “Well, careful now. Wouldn’t want to hide those pretty eyes of yours.” 

Bucky nestled closer into Steve’s side, and laid his head against Steve’s chest, listening to his heartbeat. Steve went back to sketching, and by the time he looked up again, Bucky’s eyes had fluttered closed. Steve set his sketchbook down on the arm of the couch and shifted slightly. Bucky stirred, causing the book in his lap to fall to the floor. Steve stood up and picked it up, then turned towards Bucky still sprawled on the couch. 

“Come to bed, Buck. You’re already falling asleep.” 

“It’s still early,” Bucky said. “What are you, eighty?” 

“You’re the one falling asleep. Now, come on. The bed won’t be warm without you.” Steve pulled Bucky to his feet, and they went to the bedroom. The room was frigid, and cold air trickled in from the crack in the window, but curled up against Bucky’s chest, Steve hardly noticed. 

*****

When Bucky woke, Steve had already finished making the coffee. Steve handed him a mug and grinned. “I got sweetened condensed milk this time, instead of evaporated milk. It tastes swell.” 

Bucky raised an eyebrow. “A turkey and sweetened condensed milk? How ritzy.” 

Steve’s eyes glittered at the mention of the turkey. “The turkey’s brining as we speak—it’s going to be the juiciest bird on the whole block!” 

“You’re one hell of a cook, Steve. What would I do without you?” 

“Starve,” Steve said, finishing his coffee and moving to the couch. 

“Oh ye of little faith,” Bucky said. “I got you a present. Since we don’t have a tree, it’s under the bed.” 

When Bucky came back he dropped a box wrapped with butcher paper on Steve’s lap, and Steve handed Bucky his stocking. 

“You first,” Bucky said. He sipped his coffee with a sleepy smile as Steve carefully unwrapped his present. 

Steve pulled out a pair of new boots, grinning from ear to ear. 

“I thought you’d like a pair of shoes you don’t have to stuff newspaper in,” Bucky said. 

“They’re swell, Buck! Thanks.” Steve pressed a quick kiss to his mouth, tasting the creamy sweet coffee still on his lips. “Now, open yours.” 

Bucky set his coffee cup down and pulled a pair of gloves out of the stocking, rubbing the soft fabric under his thumb. Then he reached down and took out a bright orange. Amazed, he reached further still and took out a small, waterlogged copy of Tarzan of the Apes. 

“Since you like John Carter so much, I thought I’d try to find you another one of Edgar Rice Burroughs’ books.”

Bucky thumbed through the book, inhaling the sweet, musty scent of the pages that were laced with cigarette smoke. “I love it. But how’d you get the money for all this?” 

“You aren’t the only one with a Christmas bonus,” Steve said. “I’ve been working hard to get some extra spending money.”

Steve was about to get up, but Bucky caught his hand. “Hold up, Steve. There’s still one more thing, but I couldn’t box it up for you.”

“What is it?” Steve asked.

Bucky grinned. “Well, I’ve been saving up all the money I would have spent on booze, and a little besides, and I finally scraped up enough to get you into college. How’s Auburndale Art School sound to you? You can start next spring.” 

Steve sat stunned for a moment. “Really?” 

“On the level,” Bucky said. 

“Oh, Buck,” Steve breathed. “Thank you. You didn’t have to.” 

“I know I didn’t, but I want to.” Bucky placed a hand on Steve’s cheek and drew his thumb across Steve’s mouth. “You know why? Because seeing you live out your dream is going to be worth it.” 

“What about your dream?” Steve asked softly. “What’s your dream?”

“My dream?” Bucky smiled. “I’m already living my dream, right here with you.” 

“Lay off, you rummy sap!” Steve punched him in the shoulder, laughing. “Don’t give me that line.” 

Bucky shrugged. “I mean, maybe playing in the Major League for the Dodgers would be nice, or being welterweight champion of the world, but I don’t think either of those are going to happen anytime soon. When it comes down to it, wherever you’re at is where I’m happiest. I’d follow you to hell and back at your coattails. The world’s my oyster, and you’re my pearl, Steve.” 

Steve blushed. “You’re such a smooth-talking sap. Quit it, you’re making my knees weak with that kinda talk!” 

“Your knees are always weak, Rogers.” Bucky laughed, and scrambled off the couch before Steve could sock him again. 

They moved into the kitchen and Bucky ate his orange slowly, savoring its tangy bright sweetness. He offered Steve a slice, but Steve shook his head and took the peel to toss into the cheesecloth he was making for the wassail. He tossed in some cloves with some spices and apple cider and then rummaged around in the cabinet.

“Did you drink that brandy I was saving?” 

“No,” Bucky said indignantly. “I told you, I haven’t been drinking at all, I promise.” 

Steve checked again and pulled out the bottle from the very back of the cabinet. He added all of it to the wassail on the stove and set it to boil. Then they settled back onto the couch, with Bucky reading his Tarzan novel with his head in Steve’s lap. It was only a few minutes before Bucky got up to stuff his feet into his boots. 

“Hey, what have I told you about wearing your shoes in the house?” Steve chided. “You’re going to make a mess.” 

“It’s cold. Maybe if we had some heat, I wouldn’t wear shoes in the house.” 

“Come here, and take those shoes off,” Steve said with a mischievous smile. 

Bucky sat down warily, raising his eyebrows at Steve. “What’s with that look? Last time you gave me that look you ended up tying me up on the bed with my belt.” 

“You liked it, didn’t you?” Steve gave him a wicked grin that made Bucky suddenly forget all about reading. 

Steve pulled Bucky’s feet up into his lap, drawing a nail across the sole of Bucky’s bare foot. Bucky jolted like he had been jabbed with a sewing needle. 

“What’s the matter, Buck? Ticklish?” 

“You know I am! Now lay off before you get a foot in the face.” 

Steve shook his head, sliding his nail slowly back up the arch of Bucky’s foot, making him shiver. “You wouldn’t. Now stay still, and I’ll make it worth your while.” 

“What’s in it for you?” Bucky asked. 

“I like seeing you squirm.” 

Bucky huffed, and picked his book back up. “Well, we’ll see about that.” 

“Oh? Is that a challenge?” Steve laughed, tracing light patterns across Bucky’s soles that made him bite his lip. 

Steve sat with Bucky’s leg between his thighs and Bucky’s foot propped up, delighting in every soft, breathless gasp Bucky made when Steve drug his fingers over the sensitive skin of the arch of his foot, and watching Bucky’s eyes flutter closed with pleasure. 

“Steve, those damn hands of yours.” Bucky sighed. “If this is how you draw, I want to be your sketches and your paintings so bad.” Bucky bit off his words, leaning back against the arm of the couch with a fluttery laugh as Steve raked his nails across his skin. 

“What was that, Buck? Couldn’t hear you over all those lovely sighs you’re making. This is almost as good as making love, seeing you all spread out in front of me, making those noises, watching your eyes close. Look at me, Buck. I wanna see them pretty gem eyes of yours.” 

“A dirty mouth and deft hands—what more could a man want?” Bucky said. “Now, are you going to sit there all night, or fuck me? You’ve been staring at me like a shark stares at a tasty looking tuna fish for the past hour now.” 

“Have a little patience,” Steve said. “The wassail is ready.” 

“You, telling me to have patience? That’s rich,” Bucky muttered. Bucky followed Steve to the kitchen and watched Steve take out the cheesecloth and pour hot wassail into mugs. 

Steve handed a mug to Bucky. “Careful now, it’s hot. And we have a whole pot to go through, so take your time.” 

Bucky took a sip and grinned. “Mm, that’s perfect. This is how my mother endured Christmases with her mother-in-law and my grandmother, I’m sure. Getting lit up like a Christmas tree is the best holiday tradition yet.” 

They went back to the couch, sipping wassail with a patchwork quilt over their laps. After a few drinks, which Bucky happily refilled, Steve was already adorably drunk.

“You’re such a lightweight,” Bucky teased. 

"Shaddup. S'only cause I don't drink all the time like you do." 

"The fact that you're barely a hundred pounds soaking wet may have something to do with it too." Bucky drained the rest of his mug and set it on the floor, and Steve took the opportunity to arch up and kiss him, pressing him back against the arm of the couch and pinning Bucky under him. 

“What was that about only weighing a hundred pounds?” Steve whispered in Bucky’s ear, pressing a hot kiss to his neck. “You don’t seem to mind when I’m riding you in bed.” 

“Jesus,” Bucky breathed. “This is the Lord’s day.” Bucky tried not to laugh and failed. 

“Well then, we’ll go to Midnight Mass,” Steve said simply, pulling back a little. 

Bucky shook his head, smiling. “You hate Midnight Mass—last time you coughed so much at the incense that you had to go outside to catch your breath.” 

Steve shrugged. “It ain’t all bad. Besides, Ma would roll in her grave if she knew I was even thinking about skipping Christmas Mass. 

“Alright. If it makes you feel better we’ll go, but try not to have another coughing fit—Father George already glares at us enough. Besides, I’m sure after what we’re about to do, neither of us will be eligible for Communion.” 

“Forget about that,” Steve said sharper than he intended to, and took another drink before setting his drink back down. 

“Those lips could make me forget anything,” Bucky murmured, and kissed him softly. But Steve wasn’t interested in soft—not tonight, when his blood was boiling and his skin was flushed with liquor and Bucky’s heat and he could taste cinnamon on his lover’s lips. 

“Bed,” Steve rasped, and Bucky obliged. 

They shucked off their clothes, tensing from the cold. Steve dropped his clothes in a pile at the foot of the bed, not even bothering to fold them. Then he swung his legs over the bed straddling Bucky’s hips, pinning him down. 

“Steve, what are you—” 

“I like it better this way. I’m gonna ride you till I break you, Buck. I’m in control tonight.”

“Hey now, what ever happened to that sweet little shy Steve?” 

Steve gave a wild laugh. “I’m not sweet now? Come on, there’ll be time enough for that later. Right now I need you hard, Buck. I want you so bad. Take me hard and fast.”  
“I won’t say no to that,” Bucky said. 

Steve bent down and kissed him, then worked his way down Bucky’s throat to the curve of his shoulder. Steve pressed his teeth there, sucking, and Bucky’s hands tightened around his waist. By the time Steve had made his way to Bucky’s hips, Bucky was squirming. Steve slowly licked up Bucky’s shaft until it was hard, then pulled back. 

“What’s the matter, Steve?” Bucky let out a strangled sigh. “I thought you wanted it fast, but you’re killing me.”

Steve reached over and grabbed the Vaseline, slicking himself up. He handed it to Bucky who did the same. “Don’t you worry, it’ll go by fast enough.” 

Steve slid himself into Bucky, and Bucky gripped his waist tightly as Steve rocked himself, riding Bucky with small moans. He went slowly at first, getting used to it at a steady pace before he went deeper, making Bucky’s hips roll with pleasure. Bucky’s eyes closed as Steve went harder and faster, and Steve raked his nails across Bucky’s chest. 

“Come on, Buck. Look at me. I want to see you come undone. I want to see them pretty eyes of yours.” Steve broke off panting, and Bucky took hold of his ass and thrusted his hips upward, Steve still guiding him deeper. “That’s it, Buck. That’s it. God, that’s swell. Faster, Buck. I can take it.” 

Bucky thrusted up as Steve leaned into him, still rocking, eyes glazed and flame-blue, his throat glistening with sweat. Steve curled his fingers in Bucky’s hair like they were reins, and Bucky groaned deep in his throat. “Yes, Stevie. Just like that. Harder, Steve.” 

Bucky slapped Steve’s ass, and Steve’s fingers tightened in his hair, tugging and driving him wild. Then Bucky skimmed his fingers over Steve’s stomach, around his hips to his cock. He wrapped his fingers around it, getting Steve off as Steve twisted and rocked his hips with every stroke. 

“Buck—you’ve gotta—I’m already—” Steve cried out, grinding against Bucky with feverish intensity before coming with a short cry, clenching his fingers in Bucky’s hair. Then he eased off Bucky, but stayed straddling him, gazing at him with the kind of look that made Bucky melt. Steve suddenly rolled off, purposeful. 

“Wait, Steve, please—” 

“I ain’t going anywhere, you punk. Now, roll over and get on all fours.” 

Bucky’s eyes widened, but he obeyed, settling down with his knees on the bed. 

Steve knelt behind him, lowering down and licking all the way down Bucky’s spine to his hole. 

Bucky bolted up. “Now you wait a second, that’s filthy!” 

“And I got a filthy mouth, so it’s even,” Steve said. “Besides, what do you know? Now, stop questioning me unless you want me to leave you high and dry, begging for me to come back and finish you off.” 

Bucky quieted. “Can’t you just get me off like normal folks?” 

“You’re the one who said that ain’t real sex,” Steve shot back. “Besides, I like you on your knees better. Just sit back and relax, Barnes. If you don’t like it you can tell me to stop, but I ain’t gonna let you talk me out of trying it just because you’re scared.” 

“I’m not scared. I just…” 

“If you even mention the word fairy again, I swear I’ll forget about getting you off and take a belt to you instead. You’re the one who said it don’t matter in the first place.”

“Alright, alright. You’re as stubborn as a mule. Get on with it then—maybe it’ll shut you up after all.” Bucky yelped as Steve yanked on his hair, pulling his head back and pressing a kiss to the side of Bucky’s neck. 

Then Steve let go and went back down, licking around Bucky’s hole with curious strokes that Bucky would never imagined would feel so good. Bucky tried to hold back his groans, but Steve heard them anyway and laughed, drawing back. 

“What did I say?” 

“Yeah, yeah. You were right, Rogers. Don’t get used to me saying it.” 

Steve huffed, exploring Bucky with his tongue, pressing here and there and grazing with his teeth so that Bucky shuddered, teasing him with quick licks that left Bucky pleading for more. When Steve pressed his tongue into Bucky’s hole, Bucky’s pleading dissolved into a mess of cries and gasps. 

“God, yes! Steve, please, I need more, just a little more, that feels so good Stevie, your tongue right there!” 

Steve just plunged a little deeper, fucking him with his tongue, drawing it in circles around Bucky’s hole until Bucky shuddered apart with a high, sharp cry and a choked off, skittish laugh. He collapsed onto the sticky sheets, panting. 

“Steve, it’s Christmas!” Bucky dissolved into breathless laughter. “What in God’s sweet name did you just do to me with your dirty, wonderful, sweet mouth? And you want to go to church after this?” Bucky flopped over, catching Steve’s hands in his. 

“I mean, not to say I told you so, but I did tell you so.” Steve grinned and wiped the sweat off his brow. 

Bucky sank back into the sheets, running a hand through his hair. “Who knew Christmas could be this swell? You’re really something, Stevie. My Stevie.” 

Steve smiled. “My Bucky. That’s all I really needed for Christmas.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -The war's coming, and shit's about to hit the fan. Enjoy this last chapter before things get rough. 
> 
> -Also, upon further reflection and a look at immigration patterns, it might make sense for Steve and Bucky to be Protestants, but I'm sticking firmly to them being Catholics for internal consistency. Also, there's a reasonable doubt in my mind, so... This is how it's going to be. 
> 
> -Please, for the love of all that is holy, comment. I have no clue what I'm doing anymore, and some feedback would be greatly appreciated. I plan on taking this work into the WWII era, and I have a sketchy conception of extending it into the Winter Soldier arc, but we'll see how it goes.


	11. The Great New England Hurricane

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A hurricane and the impending war tear up Bucky's life in a flash.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -Warning: if any of ya'll would be upset by panic/asthma attacks, you might want to skip the first scene. 
> 
> -So... The war is here, folks. Buckle up, because it's going to be a bumpy ride. Also, things are getting quite slow (research + depression + writer's block is a killer combo), so... I'll try to still update weekly, but no promises. I'll do my best. 
> 
> -If bondage is your thing, you'll like next chapter. ;) 
> 
> -Also, my sincerest apologies for skimming over Steve's many (and varying) diagnoses/disabilities. I was meaning to focus on them more, but I got distracted by the allure of sex and fantasy. So... my bad. I may write a fic where the impact of Steve's disabilities is more than a cursory issue, but I got distracted this time. And, if my portrayal and/or language is ableist, I sincerely apologize--just leave a comment and I'll fix it ASAP. 
> 
> -Please comment if you want to see more of this fic. Idk what the hell I'm doing anymore. Comment, criticize, recommend, anything. I don't care what it is, I just need some feedback.

September 21st, 1938 was a day Steve would always remember. The rains that had been building up for the past few days finally gave way to a hurricane that smashed through Long Island and left a trail of destruction in its wake. It hit almost without warning. Steve was at the kitchen table working on his sketches when he noticed that the swing music on the wireless had switched to a warning being broadcasted across the city. He tried to concentrate on the words, but the thoughts in his head drowned them all out. 

Where was Bucky? He had gone to work in the morning, but shouldn’t he have been home by now? Could he be out playing cards at some club, or drinking? No, he said he wouldn’t unless Steve was with him, and Steve trusted him. Besides, it was only a little after Bucky normally got home after his shift. It must be the hurricane. The hurricane. What if Bucky was stuck and he couldn’t make it back? There’s no way he could ride his bicycle though the rain lashed streets. 

Steve shoved his feet into the boots Bucky had bought him last Christmas and flung on his coat. He was out the door and halfway down the steps when he saw Bucky hunched over in the rain, clutching his scarf in both hands. Bucky bounded up the stairs two at a time, catching Steve by the shoulders. 

“What the hell are you doing out here, Steve? It’s a goddamn hurricane out there!” 

“I-I thought… Well, you weren’t coming home, and I thought—”

Bucky turned him around and shoved him into their apartment. “You thought what? That you’d go and look for me in the rain and the wind! Jesus, Mary and Joseph, Steve! You’d blow right over in that gale.” Bucky turned him around and threw his arms around Steve’s shoulders, hugging him tight. 

“Buck, you’re soaking wet. You’re going to catch a cold. Wait, where’s your bike?” 

“I left it at the factory. Don’t worry about it, we’ll get another one if we have to. Don’t ever do that to me again, Steve. Don’t give me such a scare.” 

“I should be saying that to you,” Steve mumbled. He gripped Bucky tight, feeling the water already soaking through his coat. “Come on, go put on some dry clothes. We can’t both be catching colds this winter.” 

With the power out and the storm clouds blocking what small amount of light came usually came in through the windows, it was dark as night inside the apartment. While Bucky got dressed with the lantern light, Steve fumbled around in the kitchen for matches and the spare candles he kept in the top drawer.

Once everything was lit and he had placed the candles around the apartment, things seemed a little better. Steve tried to ignore the wind howling outside and the rain crashing against the building. 

“Don’t worry, Stevie. We’ll be all right. The storm ain’t so bad here yet. Maybe we won’t get the worst of it at all. Just hang tight, and we’ll be all right.” 

“Okay. Yeah.” Steve’s breath came out short and shallow, as if the apartment was sealed up and running out of air. 

“Hey, look at me.” Bucky knelt at his feet on the couch and took his hands. “Take a deep breath. It’s going to be fine.” 

There was a crack of a tree downstairs, and Steve shut his eyes, sucking in another breath. “Yeah. Just swell.” 

Each minute seemed like an eternity to Steve, who with each passing second could swear that the storm was getting worse. He concentrated on the flickering, bright flame of the pale beeswax candle. Suddenly, he drew in a sharp breath. 

“Bucky, where did we get these candles?” 

“I don’t remember. It was a long time ago.” 

“Don’t lie to me. Where did you get these candles?” 

“You seem pretty certain already,” Bucky hedged, glancing away. He was still on the floor, leaning against the couch with his head against Steve’s knee and their hands clasped.  


Steve took his hand out of Bucky’s grip and tilted Bucky’s chin towards him, so that Bucky had to look up at him for once. “Are these votive candles from St. Andrews? You oughta be ashamed of yourself.” 

“Look, Steve. It was a long time ago. You were sick, the power got cut off because I couldn’t pay rent on time. You needed heat, light, something. Anything. I couldn’t just leave you in the dark. And anyway, I already confessed. There ain’t nothing to say now. Just… think of it as a gift from the good Lord.” 

Steve shook his head. “That kinda talk is what’s going to get you in trouble, Buck. Have a little respect, will ya?”

“Oh, come on. After all my other sins, I don’t think this one’s gonna hurt too much.” 

“Don’t be so cavalier,” Steve murmured. “You’re a good person, you just gotta act like it every now and then.” 

“Hush, Bucky said. “That’s a secret.” 

“No it ain’t. Anyone with a brain can tell what a swell guy you are, Bucky Barnes. You ain’t fooling nobody.” 

For a moment, Steve had been able to be lost in their own little world, but then the storm brought him back to reality. The glass in the window shattered, and Bucky jumped up off the couch, grabbing Steve and jerking him into the bedroom. Bucky shoved him in the small closet, shutting the door behind them. 

“Are you okay?” Bucky asked. 

Steve put a hand to his cheek, and it came back wet. He was breathless and rattled. It felt like he had swallowed all those shiny glass marbles he used to play with as a kid. “Yeah. I’m fine. How about you?” 

“I’m good. Let’s just hang tight in here until this whole thing blows over.” Bucky gave a sharp laugh. “Bad phrasing.” 

Steve sank down, hugging his knees with his back against the closet wall. His breathing was tight and irregular, and he was dizzy. Was it the blood loss? No, no. That was just a cut. Just a small cut. He would be fine. He would be fine if he didn’t suffocate, if he could breathe, if he could just get some air into his burning, heaving lungs long enough to—

“Steve.” Bucky’s hand was on his shoulder. Bucky was crouched over him, head brushing their coats hanging above them. “Just breathe. It’ll be okay. Just take deep breathes, Steve.” 

“E-Easy for you to, for you to say.” 

Bucky took Steve’s hand and placed it on his heart, over his shirt. “Breathe in nice and slow with me. That’s it. Just like that.” 

“I know how to breathe! I-I’m f-f-fucking trying!” 

“I know. I’m just reminding you.” 

“I-I can’t—” Steve sucked in air, trying to hold it. His chest burned. His whole body shuddered and burned, like ants were crawling across his skin. 

“You’re doing fine, Steve.” 

“No, no I’m not! I’m r-really not! I can’t do this anymore!” Steve’s face was wet again, but with tears instead of blood. 

“What’s wrong?” Bucky said it plainly, without the pity or disdain that was so common when everyone else said it, but Steve’s temper flared up anyway. The words got stuck in his throat and the anger was hard to swallow. He tried to calm down, but when the anger settled all that was left was a hopeless despair that felt like drowning. The air was thick, like he was trying to breathe though molasses. 

“I don’t know,” Steve said. “I don’t know.” 

He hated himself for this weakness. He sat there wheezing, trying to catch his breath and stop everything from spinning out of control. Here he was, curled up crying in a closet like when he was eight and the other kids had jumped him on the way home from school. They had broken his nose, but he hadn’t cried then. He wouldn’t give them the satisfaction. No, he went home and stoically let his mom tend to his wounds, as if he was a soldier returning from some important battle, and then he went into the coat closet and cried at the injustice of it all until his head ached and felt like it was packed full of cotton. 

“I’m gonna die a n-n-nobody, just some s-s-scrawny kid from some Brooklyn back alley who keeled over from, from pneumonia. I n-need to help people, but I can’t even, I can’t even help myself. These Jews coming in from Poland with nothing to their name telling of the atrocities that are just around the corner make me sick, but there’s, there’s n-n-nothing I can do about it. The world’s crumbling all around me, and I don’t want to just stand there and watch it burn!” 

Bucky pulled Steve close, until the shoulder of his coat was wet with Steve’s tears, and he could feel Steve’s frame shuddering with each sob. “You ain’t a nobody, Steve Rogers. You’re the best somebody I know, honest.” 

Steve hiccupped, and took a shaky, gasping breath. “Even after all my training I’m still scrawny as a bean pole. I-I’m always in pain, so much damn pain that never stops, and it just tears into my brain and I can’t take it anymore, it’s there like a c-c-cold in your bones, and it won’t ever go away. I’m gonna be weak and frail for the rest of my life, however long that is. Damn it, even d-d-drawing is, even drawing is getting harder and harder and I don’t know if I can keep it up, but I have to, because if I don’t have drawing what the hell do I got?” 

Bucky threaded his fingers through Steve’s hair. “You have me, Steve. I know it ain’t much, and that it doesn’t make up for everything. You’re doing great, real swell. Things are going to get better. This slump can’t last forever. You won’t have to work so hard in a bit, you can just relax a little, and maybe I’ll be able to drop a couple shifts every now and then. You’ll see, we’ll be having a turkey again by next Christmas. Thing’s will get better, and once we have some money again, we can get you more medicine, and you’ll feel a little better. You’re doing great though, Steve. You’re the strongest person I know. I know you can take care of yourself, but I’d do anything for you. I’d go to Hell and back for you. You’re so strong, so brave. Don’t ever think anything else.” 

Bucky smoothed his fingers over Steve’s face, wiping away the tears. His fingers were tacky with blood and tears. “You’re the toughest, bravest person I know, and I know a lot of fellas.” 

“D-don’t give me those lines, Buck.” Steve gripped onto Bucky, clenching his hands tight in his shirt. 

“S’true, and don’t you forget it. I know it must get lonely, but you aren’t alone. Just remember that—you aren’t alone. I know it hurts, but I’ll be here with you every step of the way.”

Steve’s throat was tight again, but this time it wasn’t anger. “Oh, Buck.” He wanted to say more, so much more, but he couldn’t. “Bucky, my Bucky.” 

*****

Bucky should have known. He should have known that things couldn’t stay the same, that Steve’s restlessness would pull him farther away until there were only the memories of when they shared the same bed and the same apartment and the same life. He should have known that the whole world was going to hell in a hand-basket, and his own little world was going to go down in flames with it. 

It had been three years of watching his life slip slowly away piece by piece. Three years of picking up odd jobs between his shifts to try to keep Steve from doing the same. But Bucky knew he went out of the house, shoveled snow in the winter for ten cents a day just to feel like he was doing something. Running laps around the block late at night with the neighborhood dogs barking and Bucky wondering if he’d be all right alone. 

Bucky watched as his life unraveled before his eyes like an old favorite sweater that was coming undone. He wished he knew how to sew everything back up. Maybe, if Steve’s mom had lived a little longer, she could have talked her son out of this madness he was trapped in. She was always good at mending things, fixing things. But Bucky—he could hardly sew a button back on, much less salvage whatever scraps of their relationship he had left. 

He could see Steve hardening, molding himself into the man he had always tried to be. Trying to hide his softness behind a steel gaze and ramrod spine. Bucky didn’t know how to tell him that his weakness was his strength, that his vulnerability was his asset. Steve wouldn’t believe him anyway. He talked non-stop about the war in Europe, bought newspapers every day he could and left them on the table where Bucky would see them. 

Bucky swore that if he had to hear one more second-hand lecture about all the atrocities in the world, and all they could do to fix it, he would strangle Steve while he slept. He was tired of the self-righteousness, the blind faith, the quiet strength and relentless optimism. He couldn’t stand Steve’s goodness. Steve was like the sun—Bucky couldn’t stand to look at him and his bright, brilliant smile, his searing heat. It was too much. 

He wished he could be the man that Steve wanted him to be, but he couldn’t. He saw the world through a different lens. He saw the hardships and the politics and the drudgery and the pointlessness of it all. He saw the starving refugees crowded into apartments even worse than theirs, packed like sardines, and he didn’t know how a war would help them find enough bread to eat. But Steve saw past the bloodshed and the grime of war. He saw it as a means to an end, a pathway to justice. Bucky didn’t know if he trusted that kind of thinking. Steve was the best person he knew, but Bucky wished that he would listen to him for once and not go swinging into every fight with bind faith that everything would turn out all right in the end. 

December 21st, 1941 was when the last shards of his life crumbled. It was like the hurricane had come again and swept him off his feet without any warning, rushing into his life and wrecking it with reckless abandon. They were in art class when they heard. One of the students rushed into the room from the hallway, and the professor stopped class to have everyone gather around a wireless as they listened to their world being turned upside down. 

Bucky wished he could have thought brave, resolute thoughts, but all he could do was stare at Steve’s profile, his thinning lips, his wide, bright eyes, already beginning to memorize each line of his face as if it was the first and last time he would ever see him. Bucky’s chest was tight, and he wondered if this was how Steve felt sometimes, like he was swimming in air but couldn’t breathe, as if the whole world was a bubble he was trapped in. He realized that this was what it was like to lose something right in front of you. 

It was Christmas Eve when Steve came home later than him, defeated and angry. Time was disjointed, like it was being told by a broken clock. Maybe it was the stiffness of Steve’s shoulders, or the look of disappointment and anger and shame that colored his cheeks red, or the tightness of his neck, but Bucky knew exactly what Steve had done. How could he not, when it was all that Steve had talked about for weeks, months even? 

“You got turned away,” Bucky said from his spot on the couch. He set down his novel. 

“I don’t want to talk about it.” Steve kicked off his shoes and pulled off his scarf. 

“You knew you wouldn’t get in.” 

“I had to try! That’s more than you can say at least.” Steve glanced away, biting his lip. “Sorry. That was uncalled for.” 

“We both know how we feel,” Bucky said. “Besides, now you can get this outta your system and go on with life.” 

Steve raised an eyebrow in a way that Bucky knew he had gotten from him. It felt weird seeing Steve mirror him like that. “So I can ‘go on with life’? I’m not going to give up, Bucky. There’s gotta be a way I’ll be useful. I just have to keep trying.” 

“Why are you so eager to throw your life away,” Bucky snapped. “There are a million other ways to serve your country, and you’re dead set on dying for it. Is that what you want? To die?” 

“I’m more than willing to die!” Steve looked like a kettle about to boil. “I’d be happy to die for my country.” 

Bucky stood up, facing down Steve who looked like he couldn’t care less that he was almost a full head shorter than him. “There’s more to life than dying, Steve! I know you don't mind dying, but don't you want to live? I know things are rough sometimes, but it's worth sticking around long enough to see if they get better! And what about me? What about us? You'd throw that all away like striking a burnt match and tossing it? Damn it, Steve, I know this is hard, I know things are rough, but you don’t have to prove yourself by dying!"

"There are some things that are bigger than you or me, Buck. I gotta make a difference in the world."

“You make a difference to me.” Bucky’s voice hardened before it could crack. He didn’t want to give Steve any leeway. “Anyway, what good'll you do the world if you're dead, huh? Being a martyr's easy—you don't have to live with the consequences. You should know about those all too well."

Steve glared at Bucky helplessly, darkly, with tears in his red-rimmed eyes. 

“Go ahead and take a swing at me, why don't you?” Bucky leaned forward, tilting his chin towards Steve, staring at him unflinchingly. “A real sockdollager. Go on, soldier boy. Get used to hurting people if you're so eager."

"It ain't like that and you know it. I don't like bullies. Don't matter where they're from. There's wrongs in this world that need righting. I know you see that, Buck. Someone's gotta do it. If I don't, what right to I have to ask others to do it for me? I got the same duty as any other American, as any other person with a conscience."

"Yeah, sure you do,” Bucky scoffed. “You got a duty to get used up as part of the war machine, another cog in the works. Another tool. That what you want?"

"If that's what it takes, than yes. I won't stand on the sidelines while others fight and die for what's right."

"There are other ways of serving your country without dying, Steve. Fighting and killing don't make you a more righteous person."

"I didn't say it did. But this is my path, Buck. If I need to walk it alone, I will. I won't force you to come, but you can't stop me from going."

"You won't even pass the first inspection. You ain't fit for duty and you know it."

"Then I'll find someone who thinks I am. I'm not giving up, Bucky. I'll find a way."

"I know you will,” Bucky said. “That's what worries me."

That night, Steve dragged him to Midnight Mass, still simmering. Kneeling there in front of the pews, Bucky prayed that Steve wouldn’t get into the army and then immediately felt guilty for it. He couldn’t bring himself to take it back though. He wasn’t sure that prayers worked that way. He tried to find a little shred of peace in the ritual sameness of things, the same as things had been since he was a child and since his grandparents were children. He tried to ignore the weight of his sins, not sure that they could ever be truly forgiven. But if he was living in sin with Steve, than he didn’t think he could bear to live without it. Steve was his everything, and if that was a sin than so be it.


	12. Desperate Goodbyes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 26+ pages of unadulterated kinkery, including but not limited to: bondage, ropes, the return of the switch, blindfolds, and good old-fashioned dares. Sorry not sorry.

Steve was just finished drinking his coffee when Bucky came back with a bundle of hemp rope over his shoulder. “Where have you been so early?”

“Sorry I’m late for breakfast. I had to swing by the docks,” Bucky said. He set the rope down on the kitchen floor and picked up a cup of cold coffee that Steve had set out for him.  
“The docks? What for?” Steve leaned back in his chair to look at the thick bundle of rope on the floor. “What’s that for?” 

Bucky grinned. “You’ll see. I have to get it ready though. But tonight, you and me are gonna have a hell of a time. What’d’ya say?” 

“Sounds swell.” Steve smiled sweetly, but Bucky could see how hard he was under his pajamas, and how his teeth caught at his lower lip. It made Bucky want to work even faster. He didn’t know if he could wait that long. 

Bucky set a large soup pot full of water to boil on the stove as he ate his cold scrambled eggs and toast. After the water had boiled, he plopped the rope into the water to loosen it up. Steve glanced over from where he was clearing away the dishes. 

“Whatcha doing now?” 

“I told you, I’m getting it ready. I got this and a couple of tips from Tommy down at the docks. He said it was a real shame I had to be let go. We got to talking on his smoke break, and I came out of the deal a bit wiser.” 

By the time Steve was starting on the dishes, Bucky was already pulling on his boots, ready to head out the door to the factory. “Now, make sure the rope doesn’t boil too long. Take it out in about three hours and hang it out on the balcony to dry with some weights attached to it.” 

“Weights? Wait, what?”

“It ain’t that hard. Should be a snap, and then you can go back to working. It’s good to take breaks every now and then, anyways. Now, I gotta get going or I’ll be late.” Bucky kissed Steve on the mouth, deep and warm and fierce. Then he winked. “We’ll finish the rest later.” 

Steve just stood there in the kitchen, spellbound and wondering what the hell was going to happen later. Then he set himself to finishing the dishes. There was no sense in sitting around waiting. After all, he had things to do. 

After the dishes, Steve sat down again to work on his sketches. Soon, he wouldn’t be doing them anymore. At least, not for pay. And maybe, if this ache in his hands kept up, he wouldn’t be doing them at all. Bucky was right—he knew he oughta take breaks every now and then, but more often than not he kept working until his fingers cramped up with stabbing pains and it felt like hot metal was being poured into the bones of his wrist. Then he sat there, slumped over the table taking shallow breaths and watching his hands shake with the strain. No matter how much he willed himself to continue, it didn’t matter. His body just wouldn’t listen. The pain was getting worse with every passing day, and he wondered if he could keep it up. He had to. There was no other choice. 

And now, with the war on, he knew that this kind of life couldn’t last forever, no matter how much he wanted it to. He wondered which sketch would be his last, and if he’d miss it during the war. He had gotten forged enlistment papers, and with those he could surely find someone to let him in. After all, every Tom, Dick, and Harry was lining up to defend their country now. What was one more kid? Surely, he could slip in somewhere. And once he was there, he would show them what he could do. It may not be much at first, but he knew that he could make it. 

Maybe Bucky was right—there was war in his blood and he knew it. He just wanted to feel alive, really alive. He wanted to do something more than living. He wanted to make his life worth living. He wanted to protect people, the way he couldn’t protect Bucky or protect himself. He needed to be worth something more than the sum of all his broken parts.  
He hoped that Bucky could forgive him, but this was something he had to do. Bucky could be content to sit on the sidelines and watch, but Steve couldn’t be satisfied with that. He needed to be a part of things. He wanted to be instrumental to something, and if becoming a tool was what that meant, he could live with that. After all, tools were useful. 

After three hours, he had a half-hearted sketch and a muddled brain. His hands were tight and the pain had changed from a dull ache to a sharp, stinging jolt with every move he made. He got up, turned off the stove, and pulled out the ropes. He regretted it immediately. They were soaked and heavy, and they splashed against his clothes and dripped all over the floor. Steve sighed at the thought of cleaning again, and dragged the ropes onto the balcony to dry. They were too heavy for the clothesline though, so he dragged them back through the house, into the bedroom, and onto the fire escape. 

There, he hoisted them up across the bars. Bucky had said weights. What weights? Steve went back into the kitchen, looking for anything that might be heavy enough. He came back to the fire escape lugging a cast iron pot and an old iron that his mom had used for his dad’s shirts. He didn’t think he had ever ironed a shirt in his life. 

He threaded the rope’s ends though the handles of the pot and the iron and left it to dry, hoping that no nosy neighbor would wonder why he had such a strange set up out on his fire escape. He changed out of his wet clothes in the bedroom, than went back to the kitchen to stare at his sketches, hoping that they would somehow magically draw themselves.

*****

By the time Bucky came back, Steve was about to go stir crazy. Bucky came in whistling, taking his shoes and coat off at the door. 

“Did you do what I asked?” Bucky said cheerfully. 

Steve pretended to be engrossed in his sketches. “Yeah, and it was messy.” 

Bucky shrugged. “Unforeseen developments happen. Where’s the rope? I don’t see it on the balcony.” 

“It’s on the fire escape.” 

“Good. Now, do we have any more of those candles left?” 

“You mean the ones you stole from the church?” 

“Yes, Steve. Those.” 

“They’re in the cabinet under the sink.” 

“Would you be a dear and grab them for me?” Bucky grinned. 

“What, you don’t have arms? I’m working here. I have a job you know.” 

“Oh, I know. I’m sure your sketches are coming along swimmingly, aren’t they? Well, why don’t you take a break since you’re so curious. Just get the candles and set them on the kitchen counter.” 

“You get more bossy every day,” Steve muttered.

“I could say the same for you.” Bucky laughed, heading out onto the fire escape and coiling the rope onto his shoulder with ease while Steve set the candles out on the table that he had cleared off, lighting them with a match. 

Then Bucky set up in the kitchen, pulling up a chair besides Steve. He steadily threaded the rope through his hands over the flame of the candle, burning off the rough bits that dug into Steve’s hands when he held the coil. There was a lot of rope to go through, so Steve grabbed a strand and started to copy Bucky. He had been waiting long enough for whatever it was Bucky had planned. 

“Go a bit faster, Steve. The rope’ll burn and get ash on it otherwise.” 

“How are you even doing this? You barely know more than me,” Steve grumbled. 

“I told you, I’m good with my hands, not my brain.” 

“You’re plenty good with both,” Steve said. 

“Ah, what are you giving me those lines for?” Bucky eyed Steve’s work, steadily working through his rope through the flame. “Trying to soften me up? Ha, it won’t work. I’m all set on what I’m going to do to you tonight. It’s going to be the ride of your life.” 

“Yeah well, the last time you said that I puked hotdog all over your shoes.” 

“You know you loved it.” Bucky winked, and they worked in silence until the rope was smooth. 

When they were done, Steve set his head down on the table. “That’s so much work. I think I need another cup of coffee.” 

“It’ll stunt your growth,” Bucky teased. “Aw, get up. We aren’t done yet.” 

Steve groaned. “How much more do we have to do? It’s taking forever.” 

“Trust me, you’ll thank me later. Now, take those beeswax candles and a rag and run it along the rope like this.”

Bucky demonstrated, and Steve resigned himself to an evening of manual labor. Hopefully, the result would be worth it. It took more oil and effort than Steve was expecting, and by the time they were done, it was dark outside. They were sweaty despite the cold, but Steve didn’t mind that. They’d get sweaty soon enough anyway. 

“Are we done now?” Steve asked. 

Bucky leaned back in his chair with a satisfied smirk. “Yes. Are you ready? Tonight’s going to be a little different.” 

“Stop teasing me already and get on with it,” Steve said. 

Bucky stood up, leaning over Steve’s chair. He dropped his leg over Steve’s lap and tilted his chin up, kissing him slowly, biting at Steve’s lower lip and letting his other hand roam down to Steve’s hip. “Teasing is half the fun. Besides, I said that it’d be different tonight. Think of it as a game. You can stop the game at any time, but when you’re in it you have to play by my rules. Well, how about it?” 

“I’m game,” Steve said with a wry grin. 

Bucky smiled. “You never were one to back away from a dare. Good. If it gets too much for you, just give me a signal. How about… oranges?” 

“Oranges? What…? Okay, fine. Oranges it is.” 

Bucky’s eyes lit up, and he licked his lips. His smile melted into something different, a twist in the lips that sent Steve’s heart racing. It was like watching thunderclouds rolling in on a perfectly sunny day and feeling a wonderful chill up your spine in the middle of summer. 

“Now, get into the bedroom and strip. It’s late enough as it is.” 

Steve nodded, doing as he was told. The winter air seeped through the crack in their bedroom window and raised the fine blonde hairs on his arms, but he sat shivering on the bed, waiting for Bucky to come in. There was a coil in his stomach, a knot of excitement and something else, something uneasy that he tried to push away. Soon, all of this would be gone. No more making coffee in the mornings for the both of them, no more late night chats on the fire escape in the sweltering summer, no more nights hot and tangled in the same damp bed. Steve shook his head, trying to clear out the thoughts like cobwebs. That would be then, but this was now. He had to savor the now, whatever that was. After all, he didn’t know how much now was left. 

When Bucky finally came in, he held the rope carefully, as if he was unsure. His steps were quick and steady as he crossed over the threshold and stood over the bed. Then he set the rope down beside the bed and slid his belt out of his loops. 

“Kneel,” Bucky said. 

Steve slid off the bed with his heart in his mouth, kneeling on the cold floor and tracing the grains of the wood planks with his eyes. Bucky made the belt quickly into handcuffs and looped them around Steve’s wrists so that his hands were tied in front of him. 

“We’re going to play a game,” Bucky said with a smirk. “All you have to do is not swear. It’s that simple. Should be easy for a perfect little angel like you, huh Steve?” 

“That’s it?” Steve asked. 

“That’s it. If you go without swearing for the night, then I’ll give you something special. But if you fail, then you get punished.” 

Steve licked his lips, not taking his eyes off the floor. “Sounds like a plan.”

“What was that? I couldn’t hear you.” 

“Yes, sir.” 

Bucky grinned. “Ah, you’ll make a soldier yet. Are you nervous, Steve? Answer that.” 

“A little,” Steve murmured. 

“Good. You’re going to be completely at my mercy, all tied up and bound. Helpless. I want you on your knees, begging for more.” 

There was that spark in Steve’s eyes that Bucky loved, that spark that he wanted to fan into a flame hot enough to burn them both to ash and cinders. 

“I like the look of you on your knees,” Bucky said. “It suits you. You think that weakness is something to be thrown away or forgotten, but you’re wrong. You wear it so well. Your vulnerability is a strength, Steve. It’s what makes you so damn wonderful.” 

Steve looked like he wanted to say something, to talk back or contradict, but he didn’t. He just knelt there, patient, a curious look on his face as he waited for Bucky’s orders. 

Bucky took his time. Time, there wasn’t enough time. He wanted to make it last. He wanted to etch Steve into his mind, burn it onto his eyelids so that every time he closed his eyes to sleep he would see Steve. Bucky stared at Steve’s naked body, savoring the way his collarbones jutted out and how his slender body was now sinewy and lithe. He liked the way Steve’s skin was taut over his ribs, and how his elbows were so sharp. Steve looked like a bird with its wings clipped, so frail with his hollow, light bones and bright eyes and his hands bound. He was beautiful. He was his. 

“Come here,” Bucky said. 

Steve got to his feet a little wobbly without his hands stood next to Bucky as he got a tie out the dresser. 

“I’m going to blindfold you,” Bucky said. “You won’t be able to see a thing.” 

Steve nodded, and turned around so that Bucky could place the tie around his eyes, knotting it at the side of Steve’s head. Then Bucky leaned forward and kissed Steve’s neck. He nipped at Steve’s ear, drinking in the way Steve jumped in surprise and then melted into his touch. 

“You’re mine, Steve. All mine. Everything that you are belongs to me, with me. This freckle at your shoulder is mine.” Bucky dipped his head down, pressing a kiss to Steve’s shoulder and then biting down with his teeth. Steve gasped, and Bucky turned him around, kissing him hard on the mouth. “Those lovely little gasps and sighs you make all belong to me. Only me.” 

Bucky pushed him down onto the bed and knelt down between his legs. He lifted up Steve’s foot and bent down, flicking his tongue across the arch of Steve’s foot. 

“Jesus Ch—” Steve said. “Bucky, what are you—” 

“Remember our deal,” Bucky said, trailing his mouth over the sole of Steve’s foot and pushing his tongue between Steve’s toes, making Steve moan and shiver. And Bucky suddenly knew why Steve loved to do this to him, because Steve was gorgeous with his head thrown back, cheeks flushed and dark bitten lips. Bucky licked a stripe up Steve’s sole, loving the soft, helpless, fluttery moans that Steve kept making. 

“Bucky, please—” 

Bucky laughed, setting Steve’s foot down and reaching for the other. “Oh, no. I’m not done yet. You just sit back and relax. This is payback, you know.” 

Bucky worked his way across every inch of Steve’s foot, pausing to suck at the sharp bone of his ankle and watching as Steve’s toes curled. Bucky’s hand slid up Steve’s leg, dipping between his thighs and caressing with soft, maddening touches that left Steve wriggling like a worm on a hook. Bucky slung Steve’s legs over his shoulders, leaning in to suck and bite at the smooth, pale skin between Steve’s thighs, ignoring how hard Steve was and the frustrated whines he was making. 

Bucky laughed. “Use your words. You like those, don’t you? Beg for it.” 

“Please, Bucky, please! I want you inside of me already. You’re driving me crazy. Just take me, Buck, any way you want. I’m yours, all yours. Whatever you want, just do it fast.”  
“Whatever I want?” 

“Yes, anything.”

Bucky had never seen him agree to anything so fast as when he was between Steve’s legs. He stripped off his clothes, throwing them in a careless heap near the door. “All right, then. Lay on the bed facedown.” 

Steve obeyed, and Bucky took his hands and tied them to the headboard. He left Steve’s legs free and swung over the bed, straddling him. Bucky threaded his hands through Steve’s hair, pulling his head up so that his back arched with the strain of it. With his other hand, he slapped Steve’s ass. Steve gasped, more with surprise than pain. Bucky leaned forward, pinning Steve down with his entire body and placing his lips at Steve’s throat. 

“How does it feel to be completely at my mercy?” Bucky murmured. “You’re awfully quiet, Steve? What’s the matter, worried your mouth is going to get the best of you? Where’s that filthy mouth of yours now?” 

“Please, Buck, I need you.” Steve rocked his hips, spreading his legs out wide. “I need you.” 

“You need me to what?” Bucky said, grinning at the way Steve’s cheeks flushed just below his blindfold. “Tell me.” 

“I need you inside of me, right now. Please, I’m begging you. I’d get on my knees for you, but you’ve got me all tied up. Do something, anything, and don’t just sit there all smug!”  
“My, how sassy you are. How demanding. You have no patience, do you?” Bucky slicked himself up, and then slicked Steve up as slow as he could, lingering. 

Bucky could hardly restrain himself as he pulled Steve towards him, gripping his hips and working his way into Steve, pulling their bodies flush. He rocked slow and steady, thrusting into Steve in lazy motions that had Steve balling his fists. 

“Faster, Buck! Please!” 

Bucky thrusted deeper and harder and faster, feeling Steve’s body taut beneath him, his whole world narrowing to this moment, this now. The smell of cheap soap, Steve’s sweat, the salty heat of him, the tight cords of his body splayed out, the harsh cries wrung from his lips and the flush of his skin. 

He wanted to tell Steve everything, every little flash of light and sound running through his mind at a mile per minute, wanted to tell Steve that he burned like a thousand suns, like hot melted wax beneath him, that Bucky never wanted this moment to end, that Steve was his everything, and that all Bucky wanted most was to see Steve shattered with pleasure at his hands. Bucky wanted to be Steve’s whole world, wanted to throw away everything else and let it burn to ash in the heat of this consuming fire in the pit of his stomach. He was flying too close to the sun, and he’d be damned if he was going to stop now, because the world was dazzling before the fall and he wanted to remember it forever this way. 

“God, Bucky! Yes! Just like that, yes!” Steve panted. 

Bucky shuddered apart, hips rocking, crying out Steve’s name as he clutched at his hips. He slowed, pausing, and Steve’s cries turned to half-snatched gasps.  
“Please, please! Don’t stop! Fuck, Bucky, please! I’m almost, almost there! Just a little more, I can’t, my hands are—”

Bucky rolled off him, lifting a hand to Steve’s face and brushing his thumb over his lips. Then he untied Steve’s hands from the bed, leaving them cuffed. “You’re in trouble, now. Can’t even follow a simple order, can you? How undisciplined.” 

Bucky smiled, grateful that Steve was still blindfolded. He didn’t think he could keep a straight face in front of him. But it was easy to lead him along, easy to keep this up. Perhaps too easy. All he wanted right now was control, because everything was spinning out from under him and there was nothing he could do to stop it. But this, right here and now? Steve, so willing and eager? It was all he wanted. He knew Steve’s strength better than Steve did himself. It was Steve’s vulnerability that he craved. Steve could put on a mask for everyone else, but for him he would always be that scrawny, tough-as-nails kid from Brooklyn. Steve might try to hide it, but Bucky wanted to see him cracked open, splayed out. He was beautiful like that. 

“Well, don’t just stand there. Come here,” Bucky said. “I told you there would be a punishment, didn’t I?” 

“W-wait! I didn’t mean it, Buck. Please, just a little bit more, and then—”

“What part of ‘punishment’ don’t you understand? We made a deal, and you disobeyed me. It’s as simple as that.” Bucky got dressed and then tugged on Steve’s wrists, leading him out of the bedroom into the kitchen. He pulled out a chair and dropped into it. 

“Come here,” Bucky ordered. When Steve stepped forward he unbuckled Steve’s belt and stripped him quickly. Bucky pretended not to notice how hard he was. “Now, bend over. You knew what was going to happen if you disobeyed me, didn’t you? Were you testing me? Didn’t think I’d go through with it, did you?” 

Steve was so flustered he didn’t know what to do with himself. Bucky knew that if he didn’t have a blindfold on Steve wouldn’t be able to look him in the eyes. But here he was, looking for trouble, asking for it. Steve bent over his lap, resting his weight on Bucky’s knees. 

“I want to hear you say it, Steve.” 

Steve licked his lips. “Say what?” 

“I want you to tell me why you’re over my knee right now. I want you to hear you ask for your punishment.” Bucky grinned, knowing that this was much more of a punishment than any spanking he could give him. Steve’s pride would get the best of him yet. 

Steve hesitated. “I disobeyed your orders,” he whispered. “I deserve to be punished.” 

“Louder, Steve. I want to hear you.” 

“I deserve to be punished,” Steve said, irritation coloring his voice. 

“Say it like you mean it. You’re the one who got yourself in trouble, not me.” 

“Please, punish me,” Steve said, his voice raw and cracked open and wanting. Bucky could feel him hard against his legs. 

Bucky wanted to lift the blindfold and see his eyes. He wanted to look into Steve’s gorgeous eyes burning in the light of the lamp on the table and watch Steve fully let himself go as he unraveled. But Bucky didn’t. He kept the blindfold on so that he could be the only thing in Steve’s world. 

The first few blows came without warning, but they were light. A warm-up. Bucky didn’t want to exhaust him too soon. He wanted to drag out the pleasure, the torment, stretch every second of this night to the fullest while he still could. He wanted to be Steve’s anchor, Steve’s compass. He kept spanking until Steve’s as was pink and flushed, not bothering to count. It wouldn’t matter. What he wanted was Steve’s reaction. 

If Steve was surprised at the turn of events, he didn’t say anything. After a while, Bucky’s hand began to hurt, and he made the last few blows as hard as he could. Steve gasped and shifted on his lap, but Bucky put a hand on his hip to steady him. The next blow made Steve bite back a whimper, and Bucky laid his palm on Steve’s ass, feeling his heat and the sting in his own hand. 

“Stand up,” Bucky said. 

Steve obeyed, waiting for Bucky to pull on his clothes. But Bucky got up and went to the front door, pulling on his boots. “Wait here.” 

Bucky went out into the cold and down the stairs of their apartment. He cut a switch down from one of the trees with his pocketknife, putting it under his coat to warm it and keep it safe from any prying eyes. He didn’t want to have to explain how he was planning to use it. 

When he got back to the apartment, Steve was still standing next to the table. He perked up when he heard the door open, shivering at the cold gust of wind that blew through the kitchen. “Bucky?” 

“I’m here.” Bucky moved to the kitchen, drawing the switch from his coat and flicking it through the air idly. “I’m going to give you a taste of your own medicine, Stevie, and see how you like it. You’re something wicked you know.” 

Steve licked his lips. “Is that a switch?” 

“It sure is.” Bucky took his pocketknife and trimmed the switch up, smoothing all the knots down and peeling off the thin bark. Then he took Steve’s hand, leading him back into the bedroom. Steve’s hands were cold, but Bucky knew he would warm up before long. 

“Bend over the bed and clasp your hands,” Bucky said. “Keep your feet steady. If you move your feet or unclasp your hands, I’ll start all over. Is that clear?” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“Good.” Bucky stepped forward, putting the switch down for a moment and rubbing Steve’s ass. It was still slightly pink, but the pain seemed to have faded. Bucky continued until Steve’s skin was warmer and Steve was pressing into the bed with little moans. Then he stopped, picking the switch back up. “Remember, you can stop any time you want.” 

“I know.” Steve’s voice held an edge, the way he always was when he was dared to do something. He was such a stubborn mule, always wanting to prove himself. Bucky found himself wanting to see Steve at his breaking point, just because he wanted to see Steve’s beautiful face when he finally cracked. 

Bucky began with quick, light strokes that soon left Steve struggling not to squirm. Each strike made a thin red line across his ass, a small raised welt on the topography of his skin, forming little valleys and ridges in a wash of pink and red. Bucky knew what a switch could do, and he wanted to make this last. When Steve had whipped him, it had been hard, with blows that felt like his skin was peeling back. After Steve had finished, Bucky was surprised not to find blood. But now Bucky wanted quick, stinging strokes, almost taunting. Steve wasn’t the only one who liked seeing others squirm. 

After a while, Bucky began giving him good, hard strokes that left Steve panting and white knuckled. The pants gave way to little moans and cries that set off sparks in Bucky’s stomach. 

“Bucky, how much more—ah, I can’t—ah, this hurts!” 

“It’s supposed to,” Bucky said. 

But he softened the blows, wanting this to last as long as he could make it. He wanted to make Steve really feel it, really give in. He wanted to make Steve let go of everything in his head that was whirling around, causing him to be as jittery as if he had downed a whole pot of coffee for the past few weeks. 

Steve didn’t move, but as Bucky went on, he got louder and louder, not even bothering to try and stifle the cries he was making. Bucky knew that Steve enjoyed being loud, and the switch was quiet enough not to matter. If anyone heard him, Bucky hoped it would sound like the passionate noises he tended to make when he couldn’t restrain himself. Nevertheless, Bucky couldn’t contain the worry that someone might hear him through the walls, with all the sharp noises he was making and the high cries. 

“Easy, there,” Bucky said. “It’s late—you don’t want to wake the neighbors, do you?” 

“Who gives a damn about the neighbors?” Steve snapped. “You can’t expect me to be as quiet as a church mouse when you’re whipping me like the devil!” 

“That so?” Bucky said, glad Steve couldn’t see his smile. It was so much easier to seem authoritative when Steve couldn’t see him shaking with laughter. “This ain’t half of what you did to me, and you know it.” 

“So what? Go ahead and whip me then. I can take it.” 

“Bold words for someone in your position,” Bucky said. “You be careful of that tone, or I’ll make you regret it. You oughta learn to watch your mouth, Rogers.” 

“What’re you gonna do, gag me?” 

Bucky gave him a harsh lash, and Steve bit off his name, almost howling it. Bucky shivered, wanting nothing more than to hear Steve crying out his name with reckless abandon. To hell with the neighbors, and to hell with modesty. 

“No. I want to hear you, Steve, and all those lovely, dirty sounds you make,” Bucky’s voice dipped low, becoming rough with how much he wanted to hear Steve screaming his name. “I want to hear you say my name. I want to hear you come undone.” 

Steve’s breath caught, and his body rippled as Bucky trailed a finger all the way down his spine, tracing it across the bright lines Bucky had made on his ass. Then Bucky stepped back again, bringing the switch whistling down with a sharp crack. He whipped Steve again and again, until it was clear that he wasn’t going to stop anytime soon, until Steve was helplessly squirming and begging for him stop. 

“Bucky! God, Bucky! Please, I don’t know how much longer I can take!” 

Bucky just whipped him faster, until Steve was choking on his name with gritted teeth. Steve’s body was wound tight, and those high, shuddering cries that left his lips made Bucky dizzy with pleasure. There was nothing Bucky loved more than to see Steve, so steady and strong-willed, being unraveled underneath his hands like an old knit sweater coming apart at the seams. 

Steve was sobbing, and his cries had died down to soft whimpers by the time his ass was left latticed red with faintly raised lash marks. Bucky stopped, bending over to untie the blindfold from Steve’s eyes. He wiped away the tears, and when Steve’s red-rimmed eyes fluttered closed, Bucky kissed his eyelids and the flushed skin of his cheeks. 

“You did good, Stevie. So good.” Bucky reached forward and unbound Steve’s hands, rubbing his wrists as Steve leaned against him on the bed. “You were perfect.” 

“You’re a devil.” Steve dropped his head into Bucky’s lap, and Bucky played with his hair softly. “I never want to look at a switch again. Good Lord, where did you learn to give orders like that anyway? You set me on fire like that, Buck.” 

“Was that the punishment you wanted?” Buck asked. 

“Every bit of it. Killer-diller.” Steve smiled slightly. “I’m still waiting for you to finish me off though, you selfish bastard.” 

“You look a bit tired for that.” 

“I could go another round, if you’re not to worn out from swinging that switch.” 

“Oh, is that a challenge?” Bucky raised an eyebrow, leaning down to kiss Steve softly, wanting to taste the lips that had made such sweet sounds. 

“Sure is. You up for it?” Steve lifted himself up, reaching for Bucky’s hair and tugging sharply. 

“Cut that out, you scamp. I guess I owe you something nice after you took that whipping so well. You rest up for a moment though, and I’ll get us a drink.”

Bucky went to the kitchen and put the kettle on the stove, rummaging around in the cabinets for the tea that Steve always saved for a rainy day. While the kettle was boiling and the tea was steeping, he finished washing the dishes in the sink. Then he found some honey to spoon into the tea and put more in than Steve would have allowed himself. He knew Steve liked his tea sweet, but he was always saving the honey on the off chance that he might need it later for a particularly bad coughing spell. 

Bucky brought the cup into the bedroom and handed it to Steve, who was leaning back into the pillows facedown. 

“What a sight,” Bucky said. “Here, I made tea.” 

“Sounds swell. I almost fell asleep waiting for you, but the pain kept me up. I think I’ll be sleeping on my stomach for a while.” Steve flipped over, taking the cup of tea and smiling at the sweetness. “You spoil me, Buck.” 

“Only when you need it.” 

While Steve drank his tea, Bucky rummaged around in their drawers for the lotion that he insisted they buy in the winter months. After Steve was finished, Bucky sat on the bed straddling his feet. 

“Turn over,” Bucky said softly. “This oughta help some. Let’s give it a try.” 

Steve set his cup down and rolled over without any hesitation. Steve gave him massages after a particularly long day at work sometimes, but neither of them had done anything like this before. Bucky rubbed some of the lotion on his hands, then caressed Steve’s ass, kneading it carefully and gently. 

“Is this okay?” he asked, running his hands softly across the crisscross pink welts and lash marks, slowly working the lotion into Steve’s skin. 

“God, yes. That’s amazing, Buck. Don’t stop.” 

Bucky felt the knot in his stomach ease a little at Steve’s sighs. He tried to push out of his mind how incredibly perverted all of this was. It was easier now that it felt normal. But soon enough they’d have to let the real world into their own little bubble, and all of this would vanish. Bucky wondered if he should really be worried about himself rather than Steve. After all, who feels good at the thought of hurting others? 

Maybe that was the reason Bucky would do everything he could to avoid the war. Steve was good at heart—he was fighting for ideals. But Bucky wasn’t sure what battle would do to him. He didn’t want to become some sick soldier who felt thrilled at the sight of blood and carnage. He didn’t want to have to hurt anyone, and even more than that, he didn’t want to know his reaction if he did. If Steve knew how easily his heart might be twisted, would he still be looking at him with that drowsy, content look? Bucky didn’t want to know.

“Hey, you okay?” Steve asked. 

“Yeah. I should be asking you that. Course I am.” 

“Don’t lie, Buck.” Steve said it simply, but Bucky still felt the sting of it as if Steve had chastised him. “You can tell me what’s bothering you.” 

“No, it’s nothing.” He didn’t want to lose whatever precious time he had left with this nonsense. “It’s fine, I promise.” 

“If you say so,” Steve murmured. 

“I do. Now, come on. Stand up. Can you do that for me?” 

“I’d do anything for you,” Steve said, only half joking. He stood up and stretched. “See? I feel fine, Buck. It still stings a little, but I’m fine.” 

“Good. Bucky kissed him slowly, possessively, cupping Steve’s cheek with his hand and drawing him closer. “I’m gonna make you feel so good, Stevie.” 

Bucky let his hands trail all over Steve’s body, dragging his fingertips across the arch of Steve’s neck, the hollow of his throat, down the curve of his back and across his ass to his hips. Then Bucky dropped to his knees, looking up at Steve through his lashes. 

“Buck, you sure you want to do this? There’s not much in it for you, and I know you love to—” 

“Nonsense. I had you exactly the way I wanted to. This is what I want to do, and I’m going to give it to you good. There’s no sense forcing yourself into a tiny little box either, Steve. Do what you like, I don’t mind. I like anything when I’m with you.” 

“Smooth-talking devil,” Steve murmured. 

“Smart-ass punk,” Bucky said. “You just watch, I’m going to have you screaming my name a second time tonight.” 

“Go ahead and make me,” Steve dared. 

Bucky took his time, driving Steve mad with soft touches and licks before sucking Steve off proper. He was able to go a little farther than last time, and he could tell that Steve noticed. Steve curled his fingers in Bucky’s hair in that way that drove him wild, pulling sharply. Bucky moaned low in his throat, taking Steve in further if only to feel Steve’s fingernails dig into his scalp. 

Steve’s eyes fluttered closed, and he rocked back a bit as Bucky licked a long stripe up his cock. Bucky brushed his hands across Steve’s back, gripping him tightly around the hips. Then, as the mood struck him, he slapped Steve’s ass. The result was electric. Steve cried out obscenities that would make a sailor blush and yanked on Bucky’s hair so hard that he gasped. 

“You damn bastard,” Steve said. “No, I didn’t say stop. Keep—” Steve moaned as Bucky slapped him again, lightly, flicking his tongue across where Steve was most sensitive. “Keep going!” 

It wasn’t long before Steve came, every bit as noisy as when he was being whipped. When Bucky popped off him, he laughed, and Steve flopped back onto the bed.  
“You’re just awful, Bucky Barnes! Incorrigible!” 

“And unrepentant, too.” Bucky grabbed a washcloth from the sink, and when he returned to the bedroom he cleaned Steve up as best he could, then crawled into bed. “Was that all right?” 

“Yes,” Steve said. “A hundred times yes. Now stop worrying, you sap. If I wanted you to stop I would have said so. Trust me, you would have known. And if you’re feeling bad about it, next time we can switch places. I guarantee you I won’t feel guilty about licking you. You deserve it!” Steve laughed, kissing Bucky before settling into bed. 

“That sounds swell,” Bucky said drowsily, putting his arm around Steve and pressing close against him. “G’night, Steve.” 

“Goodnight. I’ll still be here in the morning, you know.” Steve stroked his hair softly. “I’ll always be here for you, Buck. ‘Cause you’re my Bucky.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -Sorry for the late upload -- I was in the country for a few days and didn't have much of an internet connection. Consider the length of this chapter as an apology of sorts. Tbh, this is my favorite chapter to date. 
> 
> -More plot coming your way in the next few chapters! Stay tuned for the amazing adventures of James Buchanan Barnes.
> 
> -So, I just got a couple of new Captain America comics featuring Bucky, so hopefully I can work in some comic canon into this story as well, even though it's mainly based on MCU. Super excited!
> 
> -Stay tuned, folks! This story isn't done yet, not by a long shot. The next arc is going to involve a lot more angst. Input/criticism is welcome, and I'm open to suggestions.


	13. Paradise Lost

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky is drafted into the war, and his world falls apart.

It was late September when Bucky picked up the mail and saw his draft notice tucked in among the bills. His stomach turned, and he put it in his coat pocket before he went inside. He tossed the rest of the mail on the counter and went back out the door before Steve could catch a glimpse of his face. He couldn’t let Steve see him like this.

He was barely off the steps before he bent over, clutching the railing and heaving his breakfast into the dirty snow in the alley next to the apartments. His knees felt like jellied canned meat, and his chest was tight. His ribs were shards of broken glass cutting into his sides and slicing him up inside. He sunk down into the snow, not even caring that he had just polished his boots. It didn’t matter now.

“How pathetic, Barnes,” he whispered to himself, wiping the bile from his mouth with his hand. “Pull yourself together.” 

A high-pitched, strained laugh escaped out of him like the whine of a carelessly scraped violin bow. Steve had been throwing himself into the Selective Service Office lines for months, standing in lines longer than the breadlines that stretched down the street when they were kids. And here he was, hysterical at the sight of a small piece of paper telling him to report for a physical in a week. 

When he finally worked up the courage to go back inside, he squared his shoulders and marched back into the kitchen, trying for all the world to exude the easy confidence that seemed to have slipped from his fingers. 

“Bucky? You okay?” Steve was working on his sketches by lamplight again in the kitchen, waiting on dinner to cook on the stove. Bucky must have seen him like this a million times, but now there was a number on how many times he had left before everything changed. 

“Yeah, I’m all right. Just a bit worn out from work.” Bucky paused, then moved towards the bedroom. “I’m gonna hit the sack early tonight.” 

“Wait,” Steve said softly. “There’s nothing you wanted to tell me?” 

“No. I’ll be rested in the morning, don’t you worry. M’sorry to spoil supper.” 

“It’s fine. I’ll save your plate in case you wake up hungry.” 

“Thanks. You’re a peach.” 

*****

If Bucky was hoping by some miracle to be disqualified for service, he was sorely disappointed when the week rolled by and he was officially drafted into the army. He should have known that God wouldn’t do him any favors. After all, it had been a while since they had been on speaking terms. 

The day before he left for boot camp, Bucky finally told Steve that he was going to war. They were on the bed, but Bucky had been pretending to read while he worked up the courage to tell him. Steve had been sketching, curled up against Bucky’s side with their legs tangled together. 

“When do you leave?” Steve asked. He sounded breathless. 

“Tomorrow. I’m sorry, Steve. I wanted to tell you sooner, but I didn’t want you to worry.”

Steve’s eyes widened, and his pencil rolled out of his fingers onto the sheets. “Bucky… did you…?” 

Bucky wanted to lie, but he couldn’t. Not with those blue eyes pinning him down, not with Steve looking at him like he was running out of air to breathe. “I was drafted.” 

“Oh, Buck.” Steve took his hand. Bucky thought he would make some comment about how Bucky should have enlisted when he had the chance. Bucky thought he would be disappointed in him, but Steve just kissed him and pulled him close. 

Steve set his sketchbook down, and Bucky shoved his book off the bed. They moved fast and slow, and Bucky wasn’t sure if he wanted time to speed up or slow down. He thought he would remember this night, Steve’s blue eyes catching in the moonlight and his cool fingers trailing up his spine. Bucky thought Steve would have wanted to talk—he was always full of words, but Steve just pulled off his clothes and straddled Bucky’s hips, his fingers shaking and a hunger brewing in his eyes. 

There were no words. I love you, I’m going to miss you, I need you, I want you, please don’t leave me, be safe, stay alive for me. None of them mattered, none of them could matter enough. It was all just noise, like the little gasps Steve made as he slid into Bucky, or the low moans deep in Bucky’s throat when Steve raked his nails down his back. Steve pulled Bucky’s hair, yanking his head back so that he could press his mouth to Bucky’s throat. 

“Steve, what are you doing?” Bucky gasped. “I have to go tomorrow, don’t leave a mark like that.” 

“You’re mine, Bucky Barnes,” Steve murmured. “I want everyone to know.” 

Steve sucked at Bucky’s skin, biting with his teeth hard enough to leave a mark, and Bucky surrendered himself to him. He set loose his tangled thoughts and sharp fears and focused on the only thing that he wanted to keep in his mind—Steve. 

They clutched each other tight, as if that could stop the sunrise from spilling in past the fire escape. It didn’t. Bucky left in the morning before Steve woke, still aching from the night. His eyes were bleary, but it was worth it to have one last memory of Steve in his mind before he left. He leaned down to kiss Steve goodbye, hoping that Steve would forgive him for leaving like this. He couldn’t stand to face Steve now. All of his resolve would crumble, and he didn’t know how he’d manage to survive without it. 

He didn’t glance back as he left their apartment, left the city, left his home and his life. All his fears and hopes and dreams were all tangled up like Christmas lights. He left the city in old clothes that he wouldn’t be able to keep, with nothing to anchor him but memories that already seemed a lifetime away. 

*****

At Camp McCoy he was processed with the rest of the recruits like a can of spam. Clothes: gone. Hair: gone. Identity: gone. Just one homogenous mass glued together by a common purpose and a strict command structure. He resigned himself to it with a fierce determination, throwing himself into this life as vigorously as he had his civilian life. This was a fresh start, a newly whitewashed wall for him to paint all over. If he succeeded here, he could dig himself out of poverty and make something of himself that he couldn’t have back home. This was a new opportunity for him to seize, and he couldn’t waste it. 

And so he set his mind to success, and didn’t contemplate the possibility of failure. The grueling ten weeks of training at Camp McCoy was like one boxing match right after another, and Bucky knew that if he could just keep his head up, he wouldn’t just survive, but he would win. He had to. 

He kept his cool despite his deep-seated fear that someone would know, that they would look at him and know that he had dreams of blood each night, and he couldn’t tell if it was his or someone else’s. They would know that when the rest of the guys were swapping stories about their Betsy’s and Ida’s and Helen’s, that he was secretly thinking about his Steve, that little scrap of righteous fury he left back in Brooklyn. Oh, he talked enough about all the girls and wild nights he’d had, but he was afraid that they’d see right through him like he was as thin as Steve’s tracing paper. 

Eventually, even Bucky began to crave some action, anything to cut the endless routine of marching and washing dishes and being broken down into essential parts of a human being so he could be put back together as the perfect soldier. He was afraid of the restless stirring in his stomach and the ease that came to him with the training, as if he’d found his calling. It was like watching Steve draw, the way his eyes lit up and his hand moved on its own, and the lines that swept from his pencil were clean and crisp and flawless. Handling a gun was like that. All he did was shut out his mind, shut out every little worry crowding his head with a steady breath. By the time the bullet had hit the target, he was done. It was as intuitive as that, and all it took was practice for him to become one of the best marksmen out of the recruits. 

By the time he left for furlough, he had been molded into a soldier. He learned to wear his skill and his uniform with pride and a swagger. He learned to be comfortable with his affinity for all the things he had always tried to avoid. What use was there in denying the skills he needed to survive? What use was there in trying to hold back anymore when everything would be on the line? He did what he had always done—adapted. He became a sergeant, rising through the ranks like oil in water. 

When Bucky finally came back to New York on his last furlough before being shipped out, he thought he knew what Odysseus had felt coming back to Ithaca. Despite all of his longing to be home and all of his desperation to avoiding missing home when he was away, coming back to New York was like stepping in old shoes he hadn’t worn in years but still fit. He stepped back into his old life a little dazed at how easy it was to go back to the way everything was before, back when it was just him and Steve against the world. 

When Bucky finally left, he gave Steve a gift he’d saved up for. He wished he could have given Steve more than that. He wanted to give him a reassurance that he’d be safe, or a promise that everything would be the same when he returned. But Bucky wasn’t sure, so he gave Steve a compass to guide him when Bucky couldn’t. He told Steve he was going to England. Somewhere nice and safe. Somewhere Steve wouldn’t worry about him. 

*****

It was late June when Bucky arrived in Casablanca as a designated marksman with the rest of the 107th Infantry Regiment. Their first target was Sicily, to target the “soft underbelly of fascism,” as Churchill put it over the wireless that the soldiers crowded around in hopes of news of home. But this time, they were the ones making the news by taking part in the largest amphibious assault to date. By July 9th, Operation HUSKY had commenced. 

The stifling heat was all Buck could think about as he stepped into the glare of the sun that afternoon, setting foot on foreign soil for the first time in his life, and possibly the last. Everything was eerily silent, and they saw no sign of any enemies. 

Bucky walked around the camp looking for his men, cursing the heat that was already frying his brains like scrambled eggs. He found them in a watermelon patch, feasting on the ripe fruit and dodging the tomatoes that the infantrymen in the nearby vegetable garden were throwing at each other. 

At 5:00 p.m. Bucky and his men were ordered to support the regiments taking a small town nearby. As the tanks and infantrymen approached the village, it seemed empty. No sign of any enemy. Then they saw the makeshift white flag at the first house, where they found four poor Sicilian peasants. The rest of the town was the same, and the knot in Bucky’s stomach loosened with the prospect of combat being temporarily over, although he couldn’t tell if ache in his chest was from relief or disappointment. 

It was like that for the next few days, with each town they entered strewn with white flags made from tablecloths, pillowcases, and sheets. The first skirmish that Bucky saw was on July 16th when they were sprayed with bullets from a machine gun emplacement coming from a small house at the edge of the town they were passing. Bucky reached for his 75 mm, his heart racing as the infantry raced for cover. He had never felt slower at readying his weapons, although he had practiced until using a gun was second nature to him. He set his sights on the house that was perched in the hills 200 meters away and fired until he destroyed the machine gun emplacement. 

His hands were shaking, and the heat was oppressive. His head felt stuffed with cotton, but he ignored it and pushed on, trying not to think about the people that he must have killed. The skirmish was over, and two men were killed, with six more wounded. Bucky told himself that casualties were an inescapable part of war, but that didn’t stop the bitter taste in his mouth, and it only strengthened his resolve to make sure that he could be depended upon in battle. He needed to be faster, more sure of himself. Lives depended on it. 

They met with the Canadian forces the next day, and at mealtime the camp was busy with men trading and bartering. Bucky traded some of his coffee and beans for tea and stew with the Canadians across the road. He missed Steve’s cooking already. He tried to push thoughts of Steve out of his mind, but as he sat drinking tea, he had to admit that the only reason he had traded for it was because it reminded him of Steve. Steve had always been the one to drink tea, not him. 

They pushed onwards, meeting with more resistance farther inland. They passed the remains of their tanks and reconnaissance carriers on the edge of the railroad that one of the intelligence officers said had been ambushed by a German rear-guard force. The next town they passed had been shelled by their artillery, and the disembodied horses on the side of the road gave off a foul stench in the midday heat that made Bucky gag. The red flesh and twisted entrails spilled out onto the ground, covered in a sheet of flies. The blood colored the dust of the road clay red like the pottery Steve had brought home from art class. 

Soon, Bucky lost track of things. Each town was like the next, each battle blurred together, each hot, sticky night and scorching dust-white day left him exhausted. He slept with grit in his mouth and a gun close to his hand, startling at the first noise that might be the scream of the shells they called “moaning minnies.” Bucky’s uniform was soaked with sweat that never seemed to do anything other than make him even hotter. The dust kicked up by marching clung to him like a second skin, and his hands were blistered from shoveling graves in the dry, hard ground. 

After taking another town, they stopped in an olive grove at the base of a hill on the other side of the town. There, they buried Troopers McGee and Thompson without their boots, because the Sicilians would sometimes dig up the graves to take clothing from the bodies. 

The days passed in drudgery and boredom, punctuated only by shellfire and adrenaline fueled fights that left Bucky shaking with exhaustion. They marched relentlessly north under General Patton’s orders, and Bucky knew that they were just pieces on the chessboard to these powerful men who moved them like pawns. He didn’t know how Steve could stomach it, being a part of some power grab by promotion-hungry generals. 

On July 15th, General Patton sent men on a “reconnaissance” mission to Arigento, and after the city was taken by General Truscott, the 7th army ignored orders and General Patton sent troops on a hundred mile dash to marched onward to Palermo, Sicily’s capital. Bucky swore he’d never complain about the heat back home again. 

They pushed through dispirited Italian troops that hardly put up a fight, and Palermo was taken within seventy-two hours with minimal casualties. Bucky wondered if some day, this would be some grand historic moment. In the moment, with blood on his boots, his hair full of grit, and the sting of sweat in his eyes as he looked through the scope of his Winchester at the narrow cobblestone streets below, it didn’t feel grand at all. 

After the fall of Palermo, the men crowded around the wireless and listened as the news of Mussolini’s downfall swept the world. Italy had fallen into chaos. The world had fallen into chaos, and all Bucky could do was cling on and hope that he could ride the storm. 

*****

By the time the American forces slogged their way through the mountains to Messina, everything had gone to shit. In a few short weeks, Bucky lost his prideful swagger and his easy confidence. It was replaced by desperate determination to live that outweighed all other concerns. Bucky wished he could have convinced himself that he was there for patriotic, selfless reasons, but he couldn’t bring himself to lie. He had been drafted, and all he wanted to do was get out alive. He wanted to live for selfish reasons, not die for selfless ones. He wasn’t as good of a man as Steve always said he was. 

He thought of all the sins that would go unconfessed if he died. The list was long. Bucky wasn’t one to sit around and wait, and he didn’t want to dilly-dally in Purgatory if he didn’t have to. Then again, even Purgatory might be better than this hellhole. Bucky was sick at the thought of Steve curled up in some foxhole somewhere, knees deep in mud, or even worse, rushing in on a suicidal mission into no-man’s-land. He told himself he shouldn’t worry about Steve when he was hundreds of miles away, but his thoughts still drifted to him in the quiet, restless moments that made up his days as he trudged on in the merciless heat. 

The Germans used the mountainous terrain and the weather to their advantage, and soon the 7th army’s pace had slowed to a crawl. Men dropped like flies in the soaring summer heat, and malaria swept through the camps in a wildfire rush. Despite the Atabrine that was a part of his rations, soon Bucky began to feel the first symptoms of malaria. At first, he figured it was the damned heat scrambling his brain like eggs in a frying pan, but as the days went on he got weaker and weaker. 

His head ached, and the heat waves that shimmered on the horizon crashed over him, accompanied by nausea. It was noon when he stumbled and tripped on the craggy ground. His gun slung off his shoulder as he hit the ground hard, and his men looked over at him in surprise. 

“Just gon’ rest for a bit,” Bucky said. “I’ll be right as rain in a minute or two. It’s this damned heat, I’m telling you.” 

“The hell you are, Sarg,” one of his men said. “You’ve been looking sick as a dog all day, but you’re so fool stubborn that we all figured the only way you’d listen was if you passed out on your own. Well, you’ve gone and done it, and you oughta be in a hospital by now. Even you can’t deny it, sir.” 

Bucky waved him away, but his men helped him up anyway. By the time they made camp, Bucky was reeling like he was soused. The doc said that his fever was high and his liver was enlarged. He barely looked at Bucky before giving him an extra dose of Atabrine, but all that did was make the fever rise even further. Bucky drifted in and out of a restless sleep, watching the stars spinning over him at night like they were pulled on silver strings. 

He dreamed of Steve. God, he missed him. Bucky missed his infectious laugh, that daredevil smile, those small, slender fingers calloused from holding a pencil all day. The freckles dotting his nose in the summer and few permanent ones in a small triangle on his lower shoulder blade. Bucky’s whole body ached with the missing, ached with the separation as if someone was pulling each tiny bit of him apart with tweezers. 

He dreamed of Steve drawing on the fire escape with the late summer sun lighting his hair with gold and a diamond glint in his eyes. He dreamed of them tangled together so tight that nothing would ever come between them, pressed together in the sticky summer heat with the salty taste of Steve’s skin on his lips. He dreamed of strawberry jam tarts and the taste of Steve’s tea. 

The nightmares seeped into his dreams like mustard gas he couldn’t escape. There was Steve, broken and bloody on the ground, and all Bucky could do was hold his limp body and shovel the grave in the hot sun and bury him without shoes so no one would disturb his rest. There was Steve, surrounded by screaming shells, drawing poison into his fragile lungs and coughing up blood. 

There was Steve, surging forward when any sane man would stop, never resting and never thinking about anything but others. Well, didn’t Bucky count in that list? The air was choked with gunpowder and dust and flies. Bucky followed him into hail of bullets, past the barbed wire that scrawled bloody words on his arms. The barbed wire cut into him, spelling out his fate. 

You are a coward. You don’t deserve him. Nothing gold can stay. Watch everything you love fade away because you aren’t strong enough. You are a coward, and you will never deserve him. 

Still, Bucky followed. He couldn’t do anything else. He stumbled over the bodies of all the men he had killed, their glassy eyes rolling up towards a blank sky, their limbs twisted and missing. He was covered in filth and blood, coated in the sins he could never outrun. Steve turned to him with those sure eyes and his jaw set. 

“Quit running,” Steve said.

Bucky gasped for breath. He was pinned under Steve gaze. Steve knew, he knew. He knew that there was a darkness in him, a sickness that couldn’t be cured. Steve stepped forward, and his eyes widened. Then his lashes fluttered closed slowly, like butterfly wings in a death spasm. Bucky tasted blood on his lips as Steve reached up and kissed him.  
Bucky set his hand on Steve’s hip and pulled him closer. Steve’s shirt was soaked, and Bucky opened his eyes to see blood blooming across Steve’s chest. There was a bayonet in his hand. He let it go as if it was red-hot, but it stayed lodged in Steve’s chest. Steve took a raspy, rattling breath and smiled. Steve’s legs buckled, and Bucky caught him against his chest, listening to the soft gasps and feeling Steve’s blood stain his shirt.

His whole world bled in his arms, pooling into the desert dust.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -This took me an inordinate amount of time to research and write. :/ I hope it's mostly historically accurate, because I damn well tried. BBC has far better records than the Americans though...
> 
> -Welcome to the start of the War Arc, as I like to think of it. I hope to roast your hearts on little skewers. :) 
> 
> -Much thanks to mandarou for "'Till the End of the Timeline." It's a Godsend when trying to further my research. 
> 
> -Also, from here on out I'm totally winging it... So, make of that what you will.


	14. Inferno

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Bucky is an ungrateful, snarky bastard who struggles to survive the war after being captured by HYDRA forces.

The sickness ravaged Bucky. It left him hollowed out like the rubble of the artillery-shelled buildings that were scattered with shattered glass and echoes of vitality. By October, his malaria had given way to walking pneumonia. Bucky began to understand how difficult this persistent pain and illness was to live with, and he wondered how Steve had always handled it so stoically. 

With the fall of Mussolini and Italy’s surrender to the Allies, Bucky and his men began fighting more Germans instead. Not like it mattered to Bucky—the bullets they fired were all the same to him. He stumbled through each skirmish in a daze, half wondering how he managed to stay alive when his brain refused to work. His only concern was immediate, the here and now. Orders received and orders given. That comprised the whole of his fragmented attention. 

But at night, when he slept restlessly, he was plagued by the nightmares that never stopped. The lines between reality and dream, life and death, became blurred. Bucky was too tired to care anymore. What did it really matter? All he could do was try to survive, but he may as well flip a coin. The results would be the same. No amount of resolution could save him from a stray mine or mortar shell. The rest was up to fate, up to God. He didn’t know. All he knew was that if his fate was in the hands of God, he thought he oughta have listened to Steve and went to Sunday Mass more often. 

All hell broke loose during the Battle of Azzano, as Bucky heard it called later. To him it was just another battle, just another stretch of barely contained chaos that threatened to overwhelm him. But it didn’t. He didn’t understand why his legs moved, why his finger pulled the trigger, why his body reacted without thinking. All he knew was that he wasn’t dead yet. The chaos of the battlefield reminded him of impromptu ball games in on the neighborhood street, where no one knew what team he was on but played along anyway. HYDRA attacked everything that moved, and the Germans and Allies alike were swept aside. 

Bucky was in a foxhole facing off against Germans when a HYDRA tank blew them away. The next shot scattered the Allied soldiers, and that was it. With a ringing in his ears and blood matting his hair, Bucky dropped his weapon and surrendered with the rest of the men still alive. It was that simple. He didn’t know whether or not he would have kept fighting if the rest of the men had held their ground. He didn’t know what good it would have done anyway. The tank would have wiped them out as quickly as it did the German soldiers. It had a kind of power that was unreal, but to Bucky everything was unreal these days, and it barely made a dent. Just another killing machine, another horror too terrible to process. 

Bucky wasn’t sure whether he would have preferred to die what he assumed was a painful death, or if it really was better to be captured but alive, but in the following days he often wished that it could have ended right there. He wondered if it was wrong of him to think that. After all, wasn’t he the one that had told Steve to hold on until things seemed better again? Hadn’t he been the one urging Steve to stand just another day, even when everything around him was going to hell? 

“Pick a side, Barnes,” he thought. “Either be content with dying or be content with living. Those are your options. Don’t be a fence-sitter.” 

He told that to himself on the near hundred-mile trek across Europe, under distant, smoky skies and over muddy ground strewn with broken glass. He got used to the sight of corpses and the scent of burning hair and flesh. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he wished he could break out of this apathy, but it was the only defense he had left. To leave it behind would be to leave himself vulnerable when he couldn’t afford to be. 

When Bucky saw their destination, he laughed bitterly, earning himself a rifle butt across the back of the head. He had left one factory and entered another. This was a HYDRA weapons factory, and at the rate the prisoners were being worked, they may have well been fuel for the engines in place of coal. Perhaps his partial death wish would be granted soon enough. This really wasn’t what he had had in mind though—far too slow for his liking. Ah well, he supposed beggars couldn’t be choosers. 

At the end of the journey, Bucky was shoved into a cage with some other men. He slumped down on the floor, chest heaving in wracking coughs that felt like they would rip his lungs like wet tissue paper. The floor was damp. He didn’t want to know why. He barely looked up as the men introduced themselves. Dugan did the talking for him, after all. 

Besides himself and Dugan, there were three other men in the cage: Private Gabe Jones, from the segregated 92nd Infantry Division. Major Montgomery Falsworth, an Englishman. Jacques Dernier, part of the French Resistance in Nazi occupied Marseilles. 

If HYDRA’s plan was to cause discord by putting disparate fighting men in a single small cage, it worked like a charm. Within three seconds of introductions, Dugan was already opening his mouth to say something stupid. 

“Hey, Jones.” Dugan smirked, leaning against the bars of the cage.

“What’s that, Dugan?” Jones side-eyed him from across the cage. 

“You know how many Frenchmen it takes to defend Paris?” 

“How many, Dugan?” 

Bucky wanted to open his mouth to tell Jones not to humor him, but it was too late. 

“I dunno.” Dugan laughed. “They’ve never tried.” 

In less time than it took a flash bulb to go off, Dugan was on his back at Bucky’s feet, cursing up a storm. Dernier stood over him with the kind of helpless fury that makes men wild. 

“Oh, pardon my French,” Dugan said as he got to his feet.

In another moment it was an all-out brawl, and Bucky pressed his back against the cage, praying that he wouldn’t be stepped on my some idiot caught up in the scuffle. The guards lit cigarettes as they watched the fight, jeering and placing bets like they were watching some cock fight or horse race. 

When Bucky fell asleep on the frigid concrete, he dreamed of Steve again. Steve stood outside his cage and placed a hand around one of the bars. 

“Pity the damned, Bucky. Pity the suffering. Is this what it took for you to realize what it means to fight? Do you just now realize what kind of horrors you’re fighting to stop?” 

“Steve, I—“

“Shh.” Steve stepped away with a knowing smile. “Time’s up. There’s a price for everything, Buck. Are you ready to pay it? Are you ready to pay the price of living?” 

“I don’t know. Is that really up to me?” 

“Well, I certainly can’t decide for you.” Steve shrugged. “But if it’s not your choice, whose is it? It’s time, Bucky. Time’s up. Wise up. Wake up.” 

“Come on, Jimmy! Wake up for Christ’s sake! Ya ain’t gon’ wanting to be late for this date.” 

Someone nudged him in the side, and Bucky was on his feet instantly. It was Dugan. Bucky could have socked him right there for all the commotion he caused last night, but he didn’t. It was better to keep a level head, especially in a place like this. 

“Jesus, it took you long enough. Get up, come on. We’ve got work to do. The others left your sorry ass behind, so get a move on if you don’t want to be singled out. This is no time to dilly-dally.” 

“I hear you, I hear you,” Bucky grumbled. “And what have I told you about calling me Jimmy? The name’s James Buchanan Barnes. Bucky, for short.” 

They hurried to the main floor accompanied by armed by guards, jogging to catch up to the men that were already ahead of them. They spent the next day assembling weapons and missiles watched by even more armed guards. Any pause was met with a savage blow, and any mistake was cause for more than that. Bucky worked quickly and efficiently, accustomed to factory shifts, but the sickness was taking its toll, and at times he had to steady himself against the man next to him as his knees buckled. 

Bucky wasn’t sure how long they worked. There was no clock, and the shifts were long. He endured them as best he could, but by the end of the week he could barely stand. There wasn’t enough food or water to go around as it was, but Bucky’s constant infractions caused the whole group’s rations to lower. He spent each night curled into himself, burning with shame and anger and fever, clinging to the faint hope that he might dream of Steve again. 

Bucky tried to focus on the task in front of him, but everything was blurring together something awful. The only way he knew he was even real was the relentless ache in his body, the fever that burned him up, the cough that rattled his brains. He didn’t know how many weeks or days or hours had passed, and he couldn’t bring himself to care. It was all of the same anyway. The hammering pain, the gnawing hunger, the barking orders of the officers in charge who worked them like dogs. Bucky tried to stay in the now, in the moment, but it seemed infinite and unchanging. Unbearable. 

“Américain—look ou—” Dernier stared at Bucky sprawled on the floor amidst the turned over cart and weapons parts.

Each cough was like a seam ripper yanking on Bucky’s insides, and he clutched his side, gripping the overturned cart to keep from falling over. He saw Colonel Lohmer striding towards him, but he didn’t have the strength to stand. 

“Dummkopf!” 

“Sorry about that, Fritzie. Can’t quite shake this damn—” Bucky clung to the cart as the coughs continued. “Think… I caught pneumonia on the battlefield… You wouldn’t happen to have a doctor in this dump, would you?”

“We do.” Lohmer stood over him, and by the time Bucky saw the metal pipe in his hands, it was too late. The blow caught Bucky in the side of the head, and he fell heavy onto the concrete, blood dripping through his hands onto the grimy floor. “I am him.” 

Dugan shoved forward, but was caught by two guards. “Jimmy! You dirty—” 

Bucky crawled to his hands and knees. His lips moved, the words wouldn’t come. He had told Dugan time and time again not to call him Jimmy. 

“This is the cure for what ails you,” Lohmer snarled. 

The metal pipe crashed onto Bucky’s back again and again, and Bucky sunk to the ground, coughing up blood and choking on sobs of rage. It wouldn’t stop, the pain would never stop, never stop. Was this Hell? Bucky wondered hazily if all his sins had finally caught up to him. The pain consumed him, and darkness devoured him. 

*****

“Well, I’d say it’s walking pneumonia, except contusions and broken ribs have taken care of the ‘walking’ part.” Jones knelt over him, steadying Bucky with his arm. “If Fritzie makes him work tomorrow, I guarantee he won’t last his shift.” 

Bucky tried to lift his head, but it hurt too much. He slumped back onto the box crates in the corner of the cage while the others conversed in whispers next to him. It hurt to open his eyes, so Bucky closed them and went to sleep. It had been a long time since he had gotten a lot of sleep. All he wanted was to rest, to escape from this pain for just a moment.

The next time he opened his eyes someone was pulling him to his feet. He got up slowly, holding a hand to his ribs. “Steve? What are you doing?” 

Steve stood in front of him, back lit by the harsh florescent light of the naked bulb behind them. He grasped Bucky’s hand, drawing him close. “Dance with me, Buck. The world’s ending, don’tcha know. One last dance before it goes.” 

“What are you saying? Please, Steve. That hurts.” 

Steve leaned forward and pressed his lips to Bucky’s neck. “Shhh. I know it does. Everything hurts. That’s how it goes, Buck. Come on, they’re playing our song. Can you hear it?” 

“Hear what?” Bucky licked his lips. He held tight to the front of Steve’s shirt. He staggered and swayed as Steve put his arm around Bucky’s hip and pulled him closer. 

Steve hummed softly, as if to himself. He often hummed to himself when he thought Bucky wasn’t home yet. Sometimes Bucky liked to stand in the doorway and secretly listen. 

“We’ll meet again… Don’t know where, don’t know when, but I know we’ll meet again some sunny day.” Steve sung as he led Bucky across the filthy concrete cell. “Keep smiling through, just like you always do, till the blue skies drive the dark clouds far away…” 

Steve was beautiful. Bucky couldn’t bring himself to look away, even as he felt his wounds reopening and the dried blood cracking as he swayed to the tune of Steve’s humming. Steve was lit in white light, his hair burnished gold and the freckles across his nose burning like scattered embers. He was all soft tans and smudged dirt and a rose gold blush across his pale skin and the inside of his wrists. 

“Th-that’s not our song, Steve. That ain’t it.” 

“Shhh. It’s almost time, Buck. Time’s running out. It’s the end of the world.” Steve stopped, resting his lips against Bucky’s forehead, right next to the gash running into Bucky’s hair. 

“No,” Bucky whimpered. “Don’t leave me. Don’t leave me here, Steve. Please. Don’t leave me. Stay. Stay with me.” 

Steve pulled away, smiling. He reached out to caress Bucky’s cheek, smearing the blood with a swipe of his thumb. Then vanished into the halo of bright, painful light that caused Bucky’s vision to flash with reds and greens and blacks. 

“Stay with me, Jimmy.” Dugan crouched over him with a hand on his shoulder. “It’s gon’ be alright. Come on, Jimmy. You’ve faced tougher battles than this. Remember when we were in that damn foxhole pinned down by Krauts and you shot that bastard with the grenade right between the eyes? I swear, the whole goddamn Kraut regiment was scrambling for cover after that, trying not to get their asses blown off.” 

“Yeah… I remember that… What a snafu—we weren’t even supposed to be anywhere near the front right then, but that asshole Riker didn’t give a damn.” 

Bucky bent over as coughing fit split through his chest. It was like the molten metal of the factory was being poured straight into his chest, trickling down across his broken ribs and settling into his lungs. He could barely breathe. God, if this was like what Steve must have felt all those years… Bucky’s eyes closed again, and he let out a shallow, shaky breath. 

“How long did I sleep?” Bucky mumbled. “Whose shift is it?” 

“Work’s done early for the day,” Dugan said. 

As Bucky’s eyes adjusted to the light, he saw Dernier, Jones, and Falsworth standing against the back of the cage with tired, triumphant smiles on their faces. The look of soldiers who have finally gained ground. 

“Hey, Jimmy,” Dugan said with a shit-eating grin on his face. “That creep Lohmer ain’t gonna bother you, or anyone else, no more. “They can’t tell it wasn’t anything other than old equipment, so we just gotta go without rations for a week. It was worth it just to hear that bastard howl, Jimmy-boy.” 

Bucky propped himself up on one arm, scowling. “Blast it, Dugan, you Dum-Dum. How many times I gotta tell you? No one, and I mean no one, calls me ‘Jimmy.’”

“Your mama named you James, didn’t she?” 

“James Buchanan Barnes. That’s why they call me Bucky.” 

Dernier laughed. “Ah, he’s a feisty sonofabitch, isn’t he? Don’t worry, Jones. I don’t think this one’s dying on us any time soon, especially now that Lohmer’s good and gone.” 

“A man can’t even catch a wink of shut-eye ‘round here without missing all the action,” Bucky muttered. 

“Aye, you should have been there, lad.” Monty winked. “It was a fine piece o’ work we did. Dugan nicked the gunpowder, Jones had the power cells, Dernier handled the explosives, and I was the mastermind behind the whole thing.” 

“No need to be modest, Monty,” Jones grumbled. 

“You what?” Bucky said. “Explosives?” 

“Nothing flashy,” Monty said. “Just enough to melt the chain and send that ruddy crane full of scrap right down on Lohmer’s head.” 

Bucky rested his head gingerly against the bars behind him, trying not to laugh. “What a damn good team this is. We oughta have a name for ourselves, boys, ‘cause we’ll be making history.” 

“We?” Dernier said, cocking an eyebrow. “Without a miracle, you’ll be chasing after Lohmer in a few days.” 

“I got my miracle, Frenchie. Now I just need a little more time.” 

“Well,” Dernier said. “Time’s all we have, friend.”

“With Lohmer gone, I hear they’re bringing in some bloke named Zola.” Monty said. “The guards were talking about it on the way here. They say he’s batshit crazy, but I have a hard time believing anyone could be crazier than that bastard Lohmer was.” 

“All right, shut your yappin’,” Dugan said. “Bucky here looks like he’s been run over by a train. He needs some shuteye, not a bunch of gossip.”

Bucky smiled as he leaned back against the bars on his wood pallet and closed his eyes. Finally, he had knocked some sense into that Dum-Dum. It was about damn time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -I got my hands on some more comics, so tbh some of the dialogue in this chapter is lifted from those to make it cannon compliant. 
> 
> -This chapter is the first in a triad based on Dante's Divine Comedy. Two more of these to go! (I like motifs, you see). 
> 
> -Thanks for all the lovely comments -- they make my day every time!


	15. Purgatorio

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Zola makes Bucky his lab rat.

The price of living. Is that what Steve meant? Was that the nagging in his brain telling him that it’d be better to just give in to the pneumonia than face whatever was coming next? Well, he didn’t listen. He had never been good at following orders, and he was a stubborn bastard. He supposed that’s why he pulled through, even after being sent to work after his ribs weren’t healed all the way and the cough still lingered. 

But his shift was short-lived, because some bigwig named Zola had other plans for him. He didn’t know why the sight of that small, unimposing man made his legs freeze up and his mouth dry. He was used to hardship, used to war, no stranger to pain. But something in his gut told him that this man was dangerous, and Bucky trusted his gut. 

Zola led him down winding corridors, away from the burning heat of the furnaces and into the cool darkness of the maze. Even if he could escape, he didn’t know if he could find his way out now. Zola stopped in front of a large room that made the hairs of Bucky’s neck bristle. A laboratory. 

The two armed guards grabbed Bucky before he could make a break for it. Bucky thrashed in their grasp like a fish caught by the mouth until one of the guards struck him across the head with the butt of his gun. The next thing he knew, Bucky was strapped to an operating table, staring into the harsh spotlight above him. 

Zola smiled as Bucky struggled against the straps holding him down. “A lively one, I see. How fortuitous. At this rate, you might last long enough for me to gather some useful data.”

“You fucking bastard,” Bucky snarled. “Let me go! I’ll tear your fucking esophagus out, then we’ll see who’s laughing!” 

“Gag him,” Zola said.

The guards quickly shoved a rubber bit between his teeth, trying not to get themselves bitten in the process. It tasted like tar and blood. Bucky tried to breathe through his nose. 

“Now, let’s begin.” Zola reached for his notepad and jotted something down. Then he pushed a button and something descended over Bucky’s head.

It was part of a machine, and it smelled like rubbing alcohol and the tang of metal. It was some kind of headgear, and as it clamped down at Bucky’s temples, he felt the first real signs of panic that paralyzed him. Bucky’s breath came out short and shallow. It was harder to breathe through the mouthpiece than he would have thought, even though there was a hole in it. 

Suddenly, a hysterical laugh sent ribbons of pain through his chest. He knew he was right when he had insisted on no gags for Steve. With his asthma, there was no way he could have been comfortable breathing. 

For a second, Bucky closed his eyes and imagined himself back in their apartment in Brooklyn, tied to the legs of the bed, looking into Steve’s eyes as he straddled Bucky’s chest. But no, he didn’t want to connect those dots. This was nothing like that, nothing. He tried to scrub the association out of his mind. He didn’t want the best and worst parts of his life to be connected like that. 

The pain hit Bucky as the machine’s arms dug into his temples, and it was like nothing he had ever felt before. It was raw, something that crackled under his skin and ripped through his insides and sloshed like battery acid through his veins. The light above him was stark white, blinding, and even after Bucky shut his eyes he could see reds and bruised greens dancing beneath his eyelids. 

Was this Purgatory—that cleansing fire, that bright pain? No, not if Zola was there. Zola belonged in the deepest pits of Hell. Bucky was sure of that, and as the minutes and hours dragged on he got even surer. 

Even though Bucky had resolved not to give Zola the satisfaction of a reaction, he soon learned that it was impossible to disobey his body’s need for an outlet of some kind. As the pain became more and more intense, he began to struggle more violently against the straps holding his wrists and legs, but there was no slack, and straining against his bonds did nothing. 

The metal headgear bit into Bucky’s skin as he thrashed, and he felt the hot trickle of blood over his ear and neck. He closed his eyes against the bright lights and screamed through the rubber gag, trying to get enough air to breathe. Maybe he’d suffocate, maybe Zola would miscalculate and turn up the goddamn machine far enough up to kill him, maybe he’d die here alone, just another test subject of Zola’s sick experimentation. The pain had to have a purpose—Zola wasn’t doing this for fun, right? There had to be a method to a madness, a reason for this pain. Bucky couldn’t take it otherwise. 

The pain was overwhelming, but Zola didn’t allow Bucky to drift into the relief of unconsciousness. Each increase in the level of pain was incremental and carefully noted. Zola took sadistic satisfaction in figuring out the very threshold of Bucky’s tolerance for pain and keeping within that range. Bucky’s screams died down to whimpers as his voice broke and his throat went raw. 

After the first session, Zola kept Bucky in the restraints while he took notes and records of Bucky’s vitals, crooning to himself in German. Bucky would have fallen asleep if he wasn’t acutely aware of every nerve ending in his body. He still felt the aftershocks even after Zola rose up the headgear, and from time to time he had uncontrollable muscle spasms. Zola noted those too. 

By the time Zola motioned for the guards to remove Bucky from his restraints, he was more exhausted than he had ever been in his life. Bucky took the first step off the table and then collapsed. His last recollection was of the guards lifting him up like a sack of potatoes while Zola scribbled in his notebook and snapped at them not to prematurely damage the goods. 

*****

Darkness. Another cage. He was alone. When the guards came to get him, he thought about resisting, but his body was limp. He was exhausted, even after sleeping more than he had slept in weeks, months even. 

“Food,” Bucky rasped as the guards unlocked his cage and hauled him up by the arms. 

They ignored him, taking him to the room with the table where Zola was waiting. 

“Food,” Bucky repeated. “I need food.” 

“Of course,” Zola agreed pleasantly. “After this session, you shall have all the breakfast you can eat. If you ate now you would only throw up, and that would be unpleasant for the both of us.”

Bucky nodded dumbly, and let himself be strapped onto the table again. What use was there in arguing when Zola was right? 

“Don’t… don’t let me die here,” Bucky pleaded as the guards moved to put in the gag. 

“Now, that all depends on you, doesn’t it?” Zola said. “I have high hopes for you, so don’t disappoint me. After all, breakfast is waiting, ja?” 

*****

Darkness to blinding light, and back again. Sleep to pain to sleep. Rinse and repeat. There was no end. 

*****

Bucky didn’t know if it’s a dream or a memory, but he didn’t question it. Reality had no meaning anymore. It was all just his brain fucking with him anyway. 

He and Steve were out in the abandoned lot across from their apartments, crouching on the hot asphalt. The cracks in the pavement were full of weeds and broken glass and hardy dandelions that popped up like fireworks.

“Ma always said that the tender ones are the best,” Steve said with a look of concentration as he pulled out a dandelion by its roots. His hands were covered with dirt, and his nails were black. There was a smudge across his face, and all Bucky wanted to do was lean over and brush it off, but he didn’t. It was endearing, and besides, that was something that girls did to boys that they liked. 

Bucky kept staring at Steve, his eyes looking like broken off pieces of the sky, and his cheeks flushed from the heat. Then the pangs in his stomach reminded him why he was on his knees in an abandoned lot pulling dandelions to begin with, and he bent down to finish the work so they could have something to eat before suppertime came and went. Steve already looked like he would collapse from exhaustion before long. 

Back at home, in their apartment, Steve set the bucket of weeds in the sink and rinsed them off several times. Then he sat down and set to work taking off the roots and flower bulbs with a small paring knife. Bucky was lost gazing at the way his deft artist’s hands handled the blade so surely before he sat down and began working alongside him.   
After they had cleaned the leaves one more time, Steve added some olive oil, lemon juice, salt, and pepper. Bucky had never cared for salads, but he was in no position to complain. After all, it had been yesterday morning since either of them had had a halfway decent meal. He wasn’t sure if it was the hunger or not, but that salad tasted like the best damn thing he had eaten, despite being slightly bitter and tangy. 

Bucky knew he had to find more shifts so they didn’t have to do this again. He didn’t want to see Steve wasting away as he stoically endured the pain and hunger that Bucky knew constantly plagued him. He didn’t deserve that kind of life. Bucky wanted to give him so much more. He would give him the world if he could. He wanted to give Steve himself, but that wasn’t an option. 

*****

“Bucky? Are you okay?” Steve touched his arm gently, and Bucky shook him off. He curled tighter onto the couch of his dingy, small apartment. Their apartment, now. He didn’t want to think about that, about everything he’d ever wanted right in front of him so close he could reach out and touch it. That would never happen. He needed to quit thinking these things. There was no sense in wanting what he could never have. 

“Go away. I’m fine.” 

“Really, Buck. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. I shouldn’t have snapped at you.” 

“Well, you were right, weren’t you? Isn’t that what you always care about? Being right? You’re always the righteous one, always the self-styled martyr. You live and breathe suffering, don’t you?” 

Steve pursed his lips. “I was wrong. I apologize.” 

“’Course you do, ‘cause you can’t do nothing bad without feeling guilty after. Go see a goddamn priest if you care so much.” 

“Bucky,” Steve said sharply. “Watch your language.” 

“What do you fucking care anyway, Rogers? You swear like a sailor all the time, worse than me even. Remember when Billy took your bike and wrecked it, and you stood there swearing and I had to haul your ass away before you started something you couldn’t finish? Or is it ‘cause you think I’m taking the good Lord’s name in vain? He don’t give a damn anyway. He don’t give a damn about kids like me.” 

Steve raised an eyebrow and folded up his knobby, sharp elbows. “You done?” 

Bucky took one look at Steve’s knitted eyebrows, his look of paternalistic disappointment, and snapped. He lurched off the couch, grabbing one of Steve’s paintbrushes off the end of the beat-up sofa. He had told him not to leave his crap laying around the living room, but here it was. Couldn’t he just work at the table like a normal person? At this rate he would end up fucking his body up even more just because he was too stubborn to admit that he needed to take breaks and work at the table with an actual chair and stretch his hands every once in a while so they didn’t lock up when he so much as picked up a pencil. 

“No, I ain’t done! You know what, you’re right, Rogers! At least I have a fucking family, huh? A mother who hates her son’s guts because he can’t be the man she needs him to be, a mother who sits there staring day after day at a picture of a man who’s never coming home!” Bucky snapped the paintbrush in half and threw it across the room with a clatter. “At least I have a sister who said it’d be better to see me dead in a gutter than living in sin with another man! Maybe that way I’d have a chance at saving my damn soul, she said! Go see a priest, she said, confess your sins or you’ll end up in Hell with every other goddamn sodomite choking on ash and brimstone! At least I have a family, right? Isn’t that right?” 

Steve stood there silent with his jaw tight and his chest heaving with quick, short breathes. He picked up the halves of the paintbrush and began pacing the length of the room. “I’m sorry. What do you want me to say? I’m sorry—I’m sorry you have a family like that, sorry my Ma had to die and leave me to be a burden for you, sorry that all I seem to do is rile you up these days. M’sorry, James.” 

“Don’t fucking call me James, or Jimmy, or anything else. It’s James Buchanan Barnes. Bucky. That’s it, you condescending bastard.” 

“Well, maybe I wouldn’t be so condescending if you stopped acting like a kid throwing a tantrum and breaking my things!” Steve’s voice cracked. “It’s my mother who died, you know!” 

“Yeah well, I’m dead to my family, so for all intents and purposes, we’re equally alone, pal. Better learn to love it here, because we’re stuck together. That is, unless you can get your asthmatic ass out of the house and pay your own rent.” 

Steve’s grip on the paintbrushes tightened till his knuckles went white, and he went red all the way to his hair. Bucky knew he’d made a huge mistake, but there was no way he could back down now. Not with Steve looking at him with tears and something too close to hate in his eyes. The words dried up in his throat. 

It was only when Steve moved towards the door, not even bothering to get his coat, that Bucky moved. He stepped closer to Steve and reached out his hand, but this time Steve was the one to shove him away with more force than Bucky thought possible. 

“Don’t. Don’t touch me, don’t speak. I don’t want to hear a single fucking word out of your mouth,” Steve said in a low voice that made the hairs of Bucky’s neck rise and the blood drop to places he didn’t want to think about. 

Then Steve whirled out of the apartment, slamming the door on his way out. 

*****

“Take it up a notch. Yes, now. We are this close! I will not have my research fail me now. There will always be others.” 

Steve, burning like a thousand suns. Looking into his light… hurt. Too bright. Bucky tasted blood in his mouth, felt it trickle down his neck. 

“Now, I told you not to be getting into any more scrapes. Really, Buck. How am I supposed to take care of you if you won’t even try to take care of yourself?” 

Bucky’s nose burned with the smell of disinfectant and rubbing alcohol. He hissed in pain, recoiling. 

“That’s what you get for being so careless, Buck. Now, hold still or it’ll take longer.” 

Steve was holding him down, his small frame flush with Bucky’s hips as they rocked in the darkness. Bucky bit down on a shirt to keep from crying out. Steve’s pants seemed obscenely loud in the quiet, but Bucky wanted to hear them. Heat pooled in his stomach at every soft cry and moan that Steve muffled against Bucky’s shoulder. Steve’s breath was hot against his skin.

Bucky strained against the ropes, but Steve had tied him up good. Still, Bucky struggled. 

“Just a little more,” Steve whispered. “Hold on, Buck. A little more. Keep still. I’m so close, so close!” 

Bucky cried out, throwing himself against the restraints. He couldn’t breathe. His chest was heaving, and his throat was torn to ribbons from the screams clawing their way out of him, and he couldn’t breathe. He was going to die, going to die, going to die. He was going to die, burnt up in the heat of a thousand suns. The pain was white hot, everywhere at once, in him and outside of him and filling the air he sucked into his lungs. 

Darkness. He tried to lift his arm but couldn’t. Panic flared though him as the realization that he had no arm crashed over him, and then his whole body stung with pins and needles, and he felt the dried blood on his neck and the restraints still holding him down. 

It wasn’t dark though. Everything was blood tinted. What happened to his eyes? What had they done to his eyes? Was he blind, was he—

“Bucky.” 

No more tricks. No more. Bucky squeezed his eyes shut. 

“Oh, my God. Bucky, please.” There was a familiar way the voice cracked. Endearing, like a chipped tooth. “Please, Buck. America needs you. I need you! Please, wake up.” 

Bucky opened his eyes to the flashing red lights above him and directly into Steve’s gorgeous blue eyes. And the sweep of his jaw, and the tight muscles of his shoulders through his uniform as he tore off the restraints. “Mm’ I dreaming?” 

“No, Bucky. It’s really me. Come on, we gotta go. Can you stand?” 

Bucky lurched off the table, and Steve helped him to his feet. Why was Bucky looking… up? 

“I thought you were dead,” Steve said, voice tight. Were his eyes watering? It was probably the smoke. Wait, smoke? 

“I thought you were smaller,” Bucky said. 

“Come on.” Steve took Bucky by the arm and half carried him out of the examination room. 

“Wh-what happened to you?”

“I joined the army,” Steve said. 

“Did it hurt?” Bucky asked. He touched the side of his head, and it came away bloody. What had they done to Steve? What had they done to himself? Bucky didn’t want to think about it right now. He was barely thinking at all, just going where Steve lead him. 

“A little.” There was that hitch in his voice that meant Steve was lying. It had hurt a lot. 

“Is it permanent?” 

“So far,” Steve said, leading him into the main room of the factory, which was now in flames. 

That was where the smoke was coming from. Bucky felt it thick in his lungs like tar, burning. It felt real enough, but Bucky still couldn’t tell if this was a dream or not. Pain was pervasive, and Bucky couldn’t escape it whether he was awake or asleep. Pain proved nothing. 

They were high up above the main floor of the factory, which had already been devoured by flames. The whole building was coming down. Steve didn’t say anything, but Bucky knew that he was worried. Even with that strange new body of his, Bucky could still tell. 

As Steve was leading him across a walkway that led to the exit, two men stepped out of the doorway and the walkway receded. There were two HYDRA officers, and one of was taunting Steve, but the words didn’t make sense. Bucky was almost sure he was dreaming when the man peeled back the skin of his face to reveal a glistening, red skull. Bucky closed his eyes shut for a moment, and hot bile burned his throat. He was about to retch over the side of the bars when Steve hurried up the stairs on their side of the factory, even higher to where the metal beams crossed above them. 

“We’re nearly done,” Steve said as they approached the beam. 

Bucky knew Steve wouldn’t go first, the bastard, so he swung his legs over the railing and stumbled onto the beam himself. Don’t look down, don’t look down. The heat of the metal burned his feet through the paper-thin soles of his shoes. He kept walking, even when the metal creaked and moaned under him. This was the only way out, the only way out of this hell. He’d rather die than go back to Zola’s table. He wouldn’t go back there, real or not. 

Just as the metal beam swung out from under him, he jumped and caught the railing, heaving himself over with quick gasps as the metal burned into the heavy callouses on his palms. He turned to see Steve looking at him with the resignation of a martyr, and an anger sparked in his chest. This wouldn’t end here. He wouldn’t let it. 

“There’s gotta be a rope or something,” Bucky yelled. 

“Just go!” Steve said. “Get out of here!” 

“No!” Bucky’s voice cracked, and he clenched his burnt hands around the bars even tighter. “Not without you!” 

Wake up, wake up, wake up. He couldn’t take this anymore. Wake up. He lied, he lied. He’d rather go back to the table, back to the pain that he could feel under his skin. Not this, anything but this. He wouldn’t leave Steve like this. Please, wake up wake up wake up. 

Steve shook his head, as if it were just another one of Bucky’s dares that he couldn’t refuse. He bent back the metal of the bars that had taken two men to carry, and then he took a running jump off the edge of the chasm. Bucky’s eyes flickered closed, and his throat ached. His whole body tensed. He wanted to scream, but the smoke was burning in his lungs and he couldn’t breathe and his eyes were watering from the smoke and sweltering heat. 

“Hey, I’m here. Come on, let’s go. I’m here, now, it’s okay.” Steve set his hand on Bucky’s shoulder, and Bucky startled to his feet. He didn’t remember falling, but his hands were blistered and raw and his head was foggy. 

Steve helped Bucky to his feet and they ran out of the factory into the cool night air. If this was a dream, Bucky didn’t want to wake up. He was alive, and free, and with Steve. That was enough. That was more than enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -So... we're somewhere around halfway through the second arc (there's three total). I think. Yay? There's still a hell of a lot more to go through though, so please bear with me. 
> 
> -I got even more comics, so from here on out I'll be using some comic knowledge to fill in the gaps of the MCU. Nothing major though. I still would like to keep internal consistency and whatnot.
> 
> -Who's that Pokemon? Is it Bucky Barnes, or his evolution, the Winter Soldier? Stay tuned to find out.


	16. Paradiso

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky gained his freedom from HYDRA, but at what cost? The war is still raging, and he's getting swept along with it.

How many whiskeys had Bucky had? He had lost count, and Steve hadn’t stopped him yet, so he drained another shot. The bar was noisy, dim, and smoke-filled. He was alone in a crowded room, glaring at the table of rowdy men who were singing drinking songs to the tune of what sounded like a broken piano. In Brooklyn, he would have been singing along, but this wasn’t Brooklyn. In fact, Bucky wasn’t even entirely sure where he was. London, maybe? The past few days had been a blur, even without whiskey. 

Bucky didn’t realize that he was tensing until Steve dropped onto a barstool next to him. Bucky’s bones melted, and his body felt liquid under Steve’s gaze. 

“What about you?” Steve asked. “You ready to follow ‘Captain America’ into the jaws of death?” 

“Hell no,” Bucky said, hoping he wasn’t slurring as much as he thought he was. “That little guy from Brooklyn, who was too dumb not to run from a fight—I’m following him.”

Steve held his gaze then looked away. 

Bucky took another drink. “You’re keeping the outfit, right?” 

“You know what, it’s kind of growing on me.” Steve smiled, and Bucky wanted to grab him and kiss him right here in this bar, everyone else be damned, but he still had enough sense in him not to. Besides, there was something in Steve’s sideways glances and fidgety feet that made him nervous too. There was something Steve wasn’t telling him—he had never been a good liar. 

Before either of them could say a thing, the room quieted, and Bucky leaned back in his chair to see who was causing such a stir. It was a devastatingly gorgeous woman who wore her heels like a soldier wears his knife. Even if she hadn’t been as stunning as a pin-up girl, Bucky had a feeling that she’d command the whole room’s attention just the same.  
Steve and Bucky got to their feet as the woman in red walked towards them. 

“Captain,” she said. 

“Agent Carter.” 

Bucky noticed the way Steve’s eyes traveled from her painted-red lips, following the curve of her blouse downwards. His eyes flicked up again, ever respectful, and Bucky looked away. His throat was tight, and he wanted another drink. 

“I see top squad is prepping for duty,” Agent Carter said coolly, glancing toward the table of men who had resumed their drinking song. 

“You don’t like music?” Steve asked with a raise of his eyebrow. 

“I do, actually,” she said. “I might even, when this is all over, go dancing.” She kept he eyes on Steve the entire time. 

“Then what are we waiting for?” Bucky said, searching for anything to break the tension in his chest and hating the fact that he still felt alone, even in the crowded room next to Steve and this woman who flirted with him so neatly and poised. 

“The right partner.” Agent Carter’s eyes never left Steve. “0800, Captain.” 

“Yes, ma’am. I’ll be there.” Steve didn’t look away from her until she had left the room. 

Steve had always been invisible to the world. He had been passed over, looked over, looked down upon. No one saw him as Bucky saw him, and now that Steve looked every inch the man he had always been on the inside, Bucky had to be content with the sidelines. Was that how it was meant to be? Bucky was a fool to believe that they could have been anything more than friends. He was a fool to believe that he had ever been anything more than practice for Steve. A love like theirs could never last. Hadn’t even Hyacinth died in Apollo’s arms? Bucky’s only wish was to make his pain into something useful, something beautiful. He wanted to make flowers from his blood. 

Bucky turned to Steve with his head pounding and his heart pumping out blood faster than a sawed-off shotgun. “I’m invisible. I-I’m turning into you—this is a horrible dream.”  
Steve put his hand on Bucky’s shoulder. “Don’t take it so hard. Maybe she’s got a friend.” 

Bucky didn’t know if Steve was just that oblivious, or if he meant to twist the knife deeper into Bucky’s guts. Maybe Steve was smart, and realized that saying anything in public was a surefire way to ensure more scrutiny than they wanted. Maybe Steve hadn’t thought at all. He still had that dreamy look on his face, after all, and he was always getting lost in his own head. Either way, all Bucky wanted after that was another drink and the double-edged sword of a restless sleep. 

*****

It was a few days later when Bucky woke up in the darkness, sweating and gasping in the cold air that filled the tent. He tried to shove away the lingering unease of the nightmare that made his skin crawl. At first he didn’t remember where he was. Everywhere is the same when you’re trapped in your own head. He saw Steve’s form in the darkness and felt his warmth, and for a moment he thought he was back in Brooklyn with a draft coming in again from that damn cracked window that he had been meaning to fix for weeks. 

“Bucky?” Steve murmured. 

“M’fine. Go back to sleep.” Bucky fished in his coat pocket for a pack of cigarettes and lit one with trembling hands. The light illuminated tent walls and dry ground. They were on a mission. That was right—Steve was the captain of the 107th Tactical Team now, and they were in the field. Bucky paused, glancing over at Steve. His lungs had never done well with second hand smoke, but Bucky didn’t want to chance going outside.

Steve waved a hand and curled back up on the two pallets they had dragged together. “Go ahead. My lungs are working swell these days. Doesn’t bother me none.” 

Bucky swayed, and put out his hand to steady himself. He was still half under. God, there would be a hell of a hangover in the morning. He knew he shouldn’t have let Dum-Dum cajole him into drinking the rest of that bottle. What a damn terrible influence that bastard was, corrupting fine young soldiers like himself with debauchery. He pushed the hair out of his eyes and sat cross-legged on his side of the pallets, watching Steve pretend to fall asleep. Steve could have had a better tent, but he had chosen to stay here with Bucky. What a sap. 

The doctor had said that Bucky was doing all right, and that with a couple of good meals in his belly he’d be as right as rain. Bucky didn’t know if he believed the doctor or not. He thought his ribs and chest still ached. Well, maybe the beatings had nothing to do with that anymore. Bucky took another drag on the cigarette, flicking the ashes on the ground in the corner of the tent. 

“I thought you were dead,” Steve said. He kept saying that as if Bucky were a ghost or something, as if it were an apology of sorts. Bucky didn’t know what to do with an apology like that. He held it in his hands like a baby bird, trying not to crush it. 

“Yeah, well so did I. Then you came along, and here I am.” 

“I’m sorry, Buck. I should have gotten there sooner.” 

“Stop putting the whole world on your shoulders, Steve. Even as brawny as you are now, you can’t take that kinda weight.” 

“Maybe… Maybe they’ll let you go home now, after all you’ve been through.” Steve stared at the cigarette between Bucky’s fingers. It was still shaking, and there was a dusting of ash on his knee. 

“The doc said I’d be fine with a few hot meals in me. I’m fine.” Bucky said it more forcefully than he had meant to. “I ain’t crazy, and I still got my arms and all that. I can still hold a gun and pull the trigger.” 

“Buck…” 

“And there’s no way I’m leaving your sorry ass behind anyway. I’m gone for a few months and what to you do? You go off alone into enemy territory and pick a fight with a whole goddamn Hydra facility. If you weren’t ‘Captain America,’ your ass’d be court marshaled by now. But here you are with a medal of bravery or some shit. More like a medal of stupidity. Didn’t that serum make you even a little bit smarter?” 

“I couldn’t leave you there.” 

“That’s not the point. I should have been dead. It shouldn’t have mattered. You’re not invincible, Steve. I’m pretty sure a bullet would kill you just like anybody else. Or am I wrong? Did those scientists figure out the mystery behind the philosopher’s stone while they were at it?” 

“Lay off, Bucky. You’re still soused for Christ’s sake. Just go to sleep.” 

“If I could sleep I wouldn’t be awake right now.” 

“Maybe if you stopped running your mouth and closed your eyes, you’d fall asleep quicker.” 

Bucky gave a dry laugh. “There’s the smart-ass I know and love. Started to think the army turned you into some kind of goody-two-shoes.”

Steve stilled, and Bucky could have kicked himself for being so careless. The last thing he wanted was another goddamn sincere apology from Steve. They both knew that all the apologies in the world couldn’t change reality. 

“Bucky, I—” 

“Look, it’s fine. It’s war. I should’ve been dead. She’s a real catch.” 

“No, that’s not what I meant—” 

“Don’t play dumb with me, Rogers. Anyone can read you like a book. I saw how you and Agent Carter couldn’t keep your eyes off each other—just admit it and move on.”  
Steve threw off his blanket and sat up. “We aren’t—we haven’t, I mean, nothing’s been—” 

“So what? You want to, don’tcha? She looks like a swell dame, someone who’d be good for you. Get your head out of your ass, Steve. We both know that we couldn’t have kept doing what we used to forever. At some point you gotta grow up and face facts. We’re in the army now. You’re goddamn Captain America. It’s a tall order, and being with me ain’t gonna help your reputation any.” 

“I don’t care about my reputation,” Steve hissed. 

Bucky took another drag of his cigarette and stared him down until Steve looked to the ground. “You’re still the worst liar, Steve.” 

“Honest, Buck. I care about you more than I care about my reputation. I still, I still lo—” 

“Don’t. You’re stuck on her, and anyone can tell.” Bucky held the smoke in his lungs and savored the sharp, hot bite of it before exhaling. “You’re just making this difficult for both of us.”

Steve glared at him, waving smoke out of his face. 

“Well?” Bucky said. “You are, aren’t you? Answer me, Steve.” 

“Okay! Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. You’re such an insufferable punk.” 

“Say it.” 

“Fine! I love her. Is that what you want to hear? She makes the grass greener, the stars brighter. That what you want me to say? I thought you were dead and I couldn’t stand it, and she’s one of the strongest people I know. You stay next to her long enough and you’re bound to catch on fire.” 

Bucky tossed his cigarette away and ground it beneath his heel with more force than necessary. “Yeah. I know.” 

“Bucky, I’m sorry.” 

“Don’t apologize.” 

“What can I do to make it—” 

“Nothing.” Bucky turned on his side and closed his eyes. Not that he’d be getting any sleep. “There’s nothing you can do, Steve, except be happy with her the way you were earlier. That’s it. That’s all there is to it. People move on, you know. I know you’re inexperienced, but I’m not. I know how these things go.” 

“I’m—”

“I swear to God, Rogers, if you apologize again I’m switching tents.” 

Steve was silent after that, and Bucky couldn’t tell if he was hurt or angry. Knowing Steve, it was probably both. He was still that righteous ball of fury Bucky had left behind in Brooklyn, just a hell of a lot bigger now. 

Bucky blamed the whiskey, and the cold, and the hard ground they were sleeping on, and Zola, and God, and himself. Most of all he blamed himself. After all, if there was one thing he was good at, it was that. 

*****

Within two weeks, they were nearly to the HYDRA facility that was their target. As they got closer to the facility, Bucky could feel his men—Captain America’s men, now—getting more anxious with every step. 

“So we escape a HYDRA facility deep in enemy territory, only to go back into another one soon after?” Dernier said. 

“Of course you’d say that, Frenchie,” Dugan said, and immediately sidestepped with his hands him the air as Dernier pivoted towards him. “Hey now, calm down. It was a joke.”  
“You and your ‘jokes’ are going to get you killed one day,” Jones said. 

“Yeah, like them Nazis are going stop throwing grenades at me whether or not I insult their mamas,” Dugan said. 

“Ever heard of friendly fire?” Falsworth chimed in. 

The men ground to a halt as Steve raised his hand. Bucky looked through his scope to the farmhouse that was nestled in the valley beneath them. 

“Any sign of activity?” Steve asked. 

“Not that I can tell,” Bucky said. He pulled out his binoculars from his pack and checked again. “It looks empty. Livestock are long gone, I’d say. Crops are burnt, too.” 

Steve motioned for them to proceed, and this time everyone was quiet and focused as they checked the farmhouse for any sign of inhabitants. Steve and Bucky went inside to check the house, while Dugan and Jones went to check the barn next to it. Bucky nearly leapt out of his skin at Dugan’s yelp. Steve was out the door quicker than you could blink, but Dugan just came out of the barn looking sheepish. Next to him, Jones was howling with laughter. Steve looked less than amused. 

“What’s going on here?” Steve asked. 

“The chicken,” Jones wheezed, and doubled over laughing. “That bastard was scared shitless by a chicken.” 

Dugan shook his head. “It was a rooster, sir. A huge one. Talons like razor blades. It came at me so fast I didn’t know what it was.” 

Steve could hardly stop himself from rolling his eyes. Instead, he gave Dugan a stern, practiced look. Bucky could tell that he’d practiced it. “Settle down, you two. If there were any enemies around, they know where we are now. Falsworth, Dernier—what have you got?” 

“All clear, Captain,” Dernier said. 

“All right,” Steve said. “Let’s settle down for the night, boys. It’s getting dark. Make sure to shut all the shutters before you turn on the lights. We don’t want any Nazis pinning us down here.” 

Everyone scrambled to comply, trying to get the best accomodations before they had to sleep on the ground again. Monty tried to persuade everyone that he should get the largest bed because of seniority, but was promptly vetoed. In the end, the only thing that everyone could agree on was that Captain America deserved the master bedroom that was attached to the living quarters. No matter how hard Steve insisted, the men eventually forced him into the room and got to business dividing the rest of the beds by virtue of a poker game around the kitchen table. 

Bucky set himself to starting a fire in the hearth. He didn’t care to squabble for a bed with the rest of him. He was just fine being alone these days. His thoughts were company enough. As soon as he got the fire going, Bucky stretched out in front of it and set his boots out to dry on the hearthstones. 

“Hey, Bucky!” Dugan called. “You really gonna miss out on this game? Winner gets the bed near the fireplace.”

“I’m good,” Bucky said. 

The men laughed and elbowed each other in the ribs. 

“Ah, oui,” Dernier said with a grin. “He has no need to gamble for a bed, after all.” 

Bucky scowled. “What’s that supposed to mean, Frenchie?” 

Dugan laughed. “It’s all right to,” and here he made an obscene gesture with his hands, “you know. We ain’t gonna tell a soul. Scout’s honor.” 

“Yeah, maybe a little action’ll cheer you up,” Jones winked. “And not battlefield action.” 

The rest of the group broke into laughter, and Bucky blamed the heat of his skin on the fire. “Captain America may be head of this team, but I’m still your superior officer,” he snapped. 

“Pulling rank, I see?” Monty said. “Perhaps you just need some sleep, Barnes. That’ll fix you up right.”

Dugan nodded. “Aye, just tell me if you need anything. I got o’ pair of ears if you want to talk about it.” 

Everyone knew what ‘it’ meant. ‘It’ was the unspoken shit that happened to Bucky in Zola’s lab. The nightmares that woke him up, different from the ones he’d had of blood and combat and death. The bruises just beginning to fade from his temples, and his temper that flared up when it never used to. The men knew, and they understood, but it wasn’t their burden to bear. It was Bucky’s, and Bucky’s alone. 

Bucky stood up, stretching, and went into the master bedroom. He wanted to be alone, away from prying eyes and good intentions and humor that tasted sour because it was too close to the truth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -This fanfic continually surprises me, and I hope it continues to do so for you as well. It's got a mind of it's own now, you see. 
> 
> -Sorry not sorry for all the angst. Ha, if you thought this was going to be a fluffy reunion, you were wrong. Better luck next time. ;)
> 
> -Inputs? Suggestions? Got a burning question? Leave them in the comments!


	17. Life is a Beautiful Paradox

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve finally confronts Bucky, who is hell-bent on ignoring the shitty circumstances of his life. As usual, Steve is having none of that and rushes headlong into the verbal fray.

“Hey.” Steve looked up from the book he was reading as Bucky entered the room. “You going to bed early? We’ve had a long day.” 

The covers were already turned down, and Steve was sitting neatly on his side of the bed with a candle on the nightstand. 

“You’re going to strain your eyes,” Bucky muttered. 

“I can see perfect now,” Steve said cheerfully. “It’s swell.”

“Why are you still reading those books on how to be a soldier and whatever military battles happened at Yorktown hundreds of years ago? I don’t see how that’s going to help you shoot Nazis and keep your team safe.” 

“Maybe not directly, but there’s no harm in knowing things, Buck. You’d know—you’re a more avid reader than me.” 

“Yeah well, I haven’t had time for reading lately.” Bucky dragged the pillows off his side of the bed and plopped them on the floor. He threw down his thin blanket and sat down on the cold, hard-wood floor. Still better than the wooden crates in his cell. Staring at Steve, just a few feet away from him on the bed above him, it didn’t seem that way. 

“What’s gotten into you, Buck? Come up here where you’ll be comfortable. You don’t have to sleep on the floor.” 

“I’m going to anyway.” 

Steve closed his book and put it on the nightstand next to the candle. “Is this about Peggy?” 

“Don’t wanna talk about it.” Bucky lay down on the floor and stared at the ceiling. “I’m tired.” 

“Don’t be that way, Buck. Don’t shut me out again.” 

“I told you, plain and simple. What don’t you understand? You ain’t telling me that Mr. American Values is going to sleep with… with his ex when he’s been seeing some swell girl from London, are you?” 

“You ain’t listening to me,” Steve said. “Shut up and listen for a moment, will you?” 

Bucky sat up and glared at Steve’s smug, self-righteous mug. “You can’t have it both ways, Rogers. You gotta chose. And I told you, and you’ve made your choice, and it ain’t me. Things can’t be like they were, so stop pretending we’re still in Brooklyn and you don’t know what the hell you’re doing.” 

Steve raised his eyebrow. “You done?” 

Bucky smoldered silently. 

“Good.” Steve picked at the threads of the patchwork quilt on the bed and took a deep breath. “If you’re done talking, I got something to tell you. Me and Peggy decided to break things off for now.” 

Bucky sat there, floored. He didn’t believe his ears. This must be another trick, another dream, another something that wasn’t real, wasn’t tangible. Zola had gotten inside his head, after all. He had done things, Bucky just didn’t know what. Was Bucky even himself anymore? It hardly felt like it. That kid in Brooklyn with his shiny boots and cocked hat—that wasn’t him. He was worn around the edges now, like an old favorite book with all the pages falling out. 

“We agreed that with the war and everything going on, that we don’t need distractions that would keep us from doing our jobs,” Steve said. “Besides, we probably won’t see each other for at least another year, and it’s not fair to keep her waiting all that time.” 

“How pragmatic.” 

“We’re putting the relationship on hold until all this stuff with the war blows over and I have space to think a little without worrying I’m going to be blown up.” 

“You may not live long enough to date Carter anyway,” Bucky pointed out. He didn’t know why he said it, other than the fact that he wanted to make absolutely sure that Steve was telling the truth, and that he wasn’t still holding on to something that wasn’t there. “You may be Captain America, but you’re not invincible.” 

“I know. It was what Peggy wanted, though. We both agreed that this was best.” Steve leaned back into the pillow and relaxed his tense shoulders. “Besides, it wasn’t much anyway. You’ve done more with girls in the dance hall back in Brooklyn.”

Bucky knew that Steve was faking nonchalance, but he also knew that Steve wasn’t lying. If it weren’t for him, Steve would still be a virgin. Somehow, the thought made him grin.   
“Well, I sure look like an ass now, don’t I?” Bucky said. 

Steve shrugged. “No different than normal.” He laughed, looking years younger. “So, what’dya say? I want you, Bucky Barnes. No tricks, no double-crossing. You and I both know that when we get out of this hell, we’ll be too busy getting wives and kids and careers for any of this to matter anymore. But here, right now? It’s a warzone. There’s nothing stopping us from embracing the chaos.” 

“What are you saying?” Bucky asked. The words rang in his ears. 

“I’m asking you if you’d be mine,” Steve said. “I wanted to tell you before, but you weren’t listening. I’m sorry I took this long, Buck, but I’m saying it now. James Buchanan Barnes, I want you.” 

Bucky sat there with tears in his eyes, fiercely blinking them away. He hadn’t cried, not when Lohmer had beaten him, and not when Zola had tortured him. So why was he crying now? 

“Why would you do that?” Bucky whispered. “Why?” 

“Oh, Buck.” Steve slid off the bed and sat next to Bucky on the floor. He took Bucky’s hand in his. “Peggy’s an amazing gal, but you’re my whole world. I couldn’t do without you. Besides, this was what Peggy wanted, and this way we can both be happy. I hope she finds someone who makes her as happy as you make me, because she’s a fine, strong woman and she deserves the best. But you don’t have to worry about that, because I want you, Buck. On the level, I do.” 

“Steve, I—” Bucky’s voice cracked, and his throat ached. All it took was Steve’s arms around him before he broke down in choking, heaving sobs. Steve pressed him against his shoulder, drawing him closer to his lap and running his fingers through Bucky’s hair. 

Bucky would have been embarrassed, but there wasn’t a single side of him that Steve hadn’t seen already. He couldn’t have held it in any longer, anyway. He cried into Steve’s shoulder until his head ached and his breath hitched. Steve held him, stroking his hair softly. 

“Bit of a mood killer, huh?” Bucky sat up, trying not to sniffle. 

Steve just laughed. “You should have seen them. Peggy and the men all think I’m some kinda sweet angel, and a virgin to boot. I didn’t have the heart to correct them.”   
“The reason why you’re so bad at lying is that everyone else does the lying for you,” Bucky said. “You just have to sit back and nod.” 

“That so?” Steve said. He got up and put Bucky’s pillow back on the bed. “You’re sleeping up here tonight.” 

“Yes, sir.” Bucky snapped a cheeky salute and scrambled under the covers. 

Steve just grinned like a cat in cream and drew Bucky close. 

“Say,” Bucky whispered. “You don’t happen to have that suit handy, would you?” 

“No, but I have something better.” Steve pulled off his shirt and threw it on the floor, then curled up next to Bucky. 

“You’re right,” Bucky agreed. “This is much better.” 

“I’ve missed you,” Steve murmured. He pulled Bucky into the curve of his body, and Bucky was shocked to find that he was now smaller than Steve. But Bucky wasn’t complaining, especially when Steve wrapped his arms around his chest and kissed the back of his neck. 

“That’s my line, you punk.” He paused, half expecting to wake up in his cell. But no, this Steve was real. 

“Hey,” Steve said softly. “You okay?” 

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m… better than okay.” 

Steve shifted, and Bucky instantly missed the touch of his body as he sat up. “No, Buck. Really. I don’t want to take things too fast.” 

“I think I can be the judge of that,” Bucky said, with more confidence than he felt. 

Steve knitted his eyebrows together. “Then why are you still tensing?” 

Bucky shrugged. “S’cold. Whatd’ya expect?” 

Steve narrowed his eyes. “All right. But you have to talk to me. Promise you’ll say something if you feel uncomfortable.” 

“I promise.” 

Steve leaned forward, kissing Bucky softly on the lips. He moved hesitantly, as if he were afraid of breaking him. Is this how Steve had felt back in Brooklyn? 

“You’re not going to hurt me, Steve. It’s okay. I’m not made of fine china.” 

“I… Okay. I’m still getting used to this. It feels… different.” 

Bucky smoothed his hands over Steve’s broad shoulders and ran them all the way down his tapered waist to his hipbones. Then he leaned in and kissed Steve on the mouth, like he had wanted to in the bar. “Good, different.” 

Steve moaned in response, and anything he had to say was forgotten. The kiss become more urgent, insistent, as if they both realized how long it had been and how little time they had left. 

“Say,” Bucky said in the gaps between kisses. “That serum make anything else bigger?” He grinned as Steve’s face flushed a shade redder. 

“See for yourself,” Steve said, nipping at Bucky’s bottom lip before pulling away and shimmying out of the rest of his clothes. 

Bucky whistled softly, and Steve looked equally embarrassed and pleased. He squirmed under Bucky’s gaze, even though there were none of the things that he had always been insecure about. Bucky almost found himself missing Steve’s sharp cheekbones and jutting hips, the hollow above his stomach and his knobby elbows. But there was still that glint in Steve’s eyes, and the mischievous curve of his lips, and he still shivered as Bucky ran his hands over all the places he was most sensitive. 

Bucky wanted to speak, but the words wouldn’t come. I need you, I want you, I can’t live without you, I’ve missed you, stay with me please, for now or forever. Instead, Bucky pressed his lips against Steve’s like a seal, trying to imprint everything he couldn’t say. He felt like a live wire, and there was a pressure against his eyes like he wanted to cry again, but there were no tears, and Bucky was happier than he’d been in months, in years, so why was there this overwhelming urge to squeeze his eyes shut and scream? 

Steve gasped, and Bucky’s eyes flickered open. His hands were knotted in Steve’s hair, and his too-long nails were digging into Steve’s scalp. Bucky loosened his grip immediately.

“I’m sorry, I—” 

“It’s okay,” Steve said. “I’m not going anywhere. Tonight is all ours. We can take it slow if you want.” 

Bucky paused. Everything was tumbling and jostling in his stomach, and his skin burned with Steve’s heat, and all he wanted was for Steve to drive away the darkness in his mind and kiss away the taste of rubber and blood and rubbing alcohol that still lingered in his mouth. 

“No, I want you. I need you, Stevie.” Bucky hoped to God it didn’t sound as pathetic as it made him feel, but Steve’s eyes lit up. 

Steve kissed him with such a gentle force it left Bucky breathless. Steve was a man of contradictions—Bucky didn’t know how he could be so pushy and patient, so fierce and careful, so wild and restrained, so demanding and compliant. 

Bucky ached for more, more, more. A moment before, everything had been overwhelming, the pain and pleasure and sadness and despair and excitement all mixing together, but now he was ravenous with the need for Steve’s hands on his body and his lips on his mouth. He was starving for affection and weak with delight. He pulled back just enough to slip out of his clothes. He didn’t even have to undo the buttons on his pants to slip them off. 

When Steve saw Bucky’s body there was a flash of an expression on his face that Bucky couldn’t place. Steve reached out, touching the scars along his back from where an edge of Lohmer’s metal pipe had torn into his flesh. 

Something too close to shame burned in Bucky’s throat, and he choked it down. He looked down at himself, at his body. It had changed. It was leaner, all sharp bony angles and pale skin untouched by sunlight that was marked red with puckered scars and the last hint of mottled bruises. 

There was steel in Steve’s eyes and a hard set to his mouth. Then his gaze softened, as if he realized where he was and who he was with. He snapped back to the moment with a small smile. 

“You’re beautiful,” Steve said softly. 

“Y’don’t have to say that.” 

“I mean it,” Steve said. “On the level. Bucky Barnes, you are gorgeous. Would I lie to you?” 

“I guess not,” Bucky mumbled. “S’not like you can manage a lie anyway.” 

Steve looked like he wanted to smack him and kiss him at the same time. “See? Trust me, then.” 

“I do,” Bucky said. “Now, are we gonna waste the whole night talking, or what? I don’t know about you, but it’s mighty cold just sitting around with no clothes on.” 

Steve kissed him for an answer. He lowered himself onto Bucky, propping himself up with his hands, and Bucky sunk back into the pillows as Steve dipped down. Bucky’s hips rocked up against Steve’s, and he tilted his neck to nip at the underside of Steve’s exposed throat. Bucky ran his hands down Steve’s shoulder blades, down the small of his back before cupping his tight ass. He mapped Steve’s body and wrapped himself in Steve’s scent, breathing in warm, earthy scent of hay and sweat and dirt. 

He had dreamed about this in boot camp, in the barracks, where you could hear every little noise in the dark and feel the shaking of the beds above you in the night. He saw the furtive glances and subtle winks that went between men like electricity, not seen as much as felt. He had wondered what it might be like to sidle up to one of the little blonde recruits in the john, with their all-American dimples and bright eyes. How easy it would have been when he was on leave to make a move on some of the men that spilled out of the bars, red faced and hips swaying. They could have checked into a cheap hotel and gone their separate ways in the morning, with no one the wiser. 

Buck had seen Steve in a million faces, in all the young recruits with a determined set to their jaw, and of the men who carried themselves with a quiet confidence, the men who held fast to their morals in the face of the chaos that was war. He had set himself apart, alone, knowing that any mistake could cost him more than he was willing to pay. He may have had many vices, but gambling was not one of them. 

But here he was, in the flesh, and Bucky was infinitely glad that he had waited for this moment, because no one could compare to Steve, and no one could have filled the Steve-shaped hole in his chest. 

“Closer,” Bucky rasped. He tried hitching Steve up, but it was much harder now. “I want you inside me, Stevie.” 

“You sure?” Steve’s breath sat hot on his collarbone. 

“Yes, dammit! I can’t wait any longer.” Bucky slapped Steve’s ass, trying to make him move quicker. Steve just moaned, nipping at the soft cartilage of Bucky’s ear. 

“They’ll hear us,” Steve purred. 

“You don’t sound concerned about that,” Bucky said. 

Steve laughed and kissed the cords of Bucky’s throat. “Are you?” 

“God, Steve, you’re so shamelessly reckless. Haven’t you learned your lesson by now?” 

“No. Care to teach it to me?” Steve shifted, grinding slow against Bucky’s hips. 

“You incorrigible bastard,” Bucky gasped, but his thoughts spun out before he could think of any idle threats. 

Steve pushed himself up, still straddling Bucky’s hips. Bucky rose up in protest, but Steve put his hand on Bucky’s chest and pushed him back into the bedsheets. 

“Wait here,” he said. “I’ll be right back.” 

It was cold without Steve’s warmth, so Bucky pulled the sheets over him as Steve rummaged through his medicine bag. When Steve came back, he had a jar of Vaseline in his hands and a dirty smile on his lips. 

“Turn over,” Steve said, and Bucky obeyed. He wouldn’t have dreamed of doing anything else—not with Steve looking him like that and talking low, in that stern voice he used so sparingly. 

Steve’s hand were cold as they slicked him up slowly. Bucky squirmed, already uncomfortably hard, but Steve took his time. Bucky didn’t know how he could be so patient and impatient at the same time. When Steve slipped a finger inside him, Bucky gasped. Steve stopped, placing one cold palm on Bucky’s burning skin. 

“Keep going,” Bucky begged. There was a knot of tension in his chest that he couldn’t undo by himself, but maybe Steve could. After all, Steve had always been good with his hands. 

Steve continued, and Bucky melted into the sheets. After a while, Bucky was almost drowsy, drunk with pleasure and the warmth of his skin. Steve paused, breaking Bucky’s daze. He felt Steve shift above him, and Bucky’s veins shot through with icy adrenaline. Was that footsteps? Was someone coming? 

“Relax,” Steve murmured. He put his hand on Bucky’s shoulder, and leaned down to kiss the back of his neck. “I’m just getting ready.” 

Bucky shivered as Steve ran his nails lightly down his back, and then weight of Steve’s thighs straddling his lifted. 

“On your knees,” Steve said. “Can you do that for me?” 

“Yes,” Bucky said, not even able to think of something sassy to say in the face of Steve’s devastatingly earnest orders. Steve sunk into him nail-bitingly slow, and Bucky wondered how Steve could restrain himself when he could feel the heat of his skin and the Gatling gun fire of his pulse. 

Bucky bit off a low moan as Steve curled his fingers in his hair and tugged hard enough for him to ride the edge of pain and pleasure. Steve rocked slow and deep, with smooth, controlled thrusts that left Bucky panting for more. He was starting to think that this serum thing wasn’t such a bad idea after all. 

“Faster. Faster, Steve. Please!” 

It didn’t take much encouragement before Steve complied, shifting his grip to Bucky’s waist as he thrusted harder and quicker. Bucky was filled with things he had almost forgotten. He was filled with Steve, with warmth and overwhelming pleasure and he was full in every sense of the word. It had been a long time since he had felt whole. He dug his fingers into the covers, gripping the fabric tight as if everything would slip away if he let go. 

He concentrated on Steve’s gasps and sighs and the rough pants that warmed Bucky’s skin, the tight whispers that Steve’s couldn’t hold back, his name said carefully and carelessly all at once, as if it comprised the whole of Steve’s consciousness and attention. Steve cried his name out with clipped, wrung out sounds and moaned it in drawn out sighs. It was all Bucky wanted to hear. He could hear what Steve wasn’t saying. He could decipher the throaty noises and the silences between Steve’s gasps. The silence took on a tangible quality, an electricity that wasn’t seen or heard as much as felt. 

This time, Bucky knew that he heard footsteps leading to the bedroom, and something that sounded suspiciously like muffled laughing. Bucky wished he could kiss Steve on the mouth to try to stop the little cries he was making. Steve had never been one for shame or reservation, but Bucky at least wished he would gain some sense of self-preservation. Steve kept thrusting even faster until Bucky was gritting his teeth to fight the urge to scream his name, but whether it was from frustration or pleasure, he couldn’t tell. 

“Steve,” Bucky hissed. “Kindly shut the fuck up, or the whole damn army’s going to hear you moaning like a French whore!”

Steve tossed back his head with a lusty sigh and a long, drawn out moan. “Ah, oui monsieur.” 

The muffled laughter got even louder, then disappeared. Bucky wondered what it would take to get some privacy around here. Well, he hadn’t had privacy in Brooklyn, and he didn’t need it now. 

“You dirty little exhibitionist,” Bucky said. “It’s like you want to get caught.” 

Steve grinned. “Learn to live a little dangerously, Buck.” 

“The war ain’t enough for you?” 

Steve laughed breathlessly, a real laugh that sent thrills down Bucky’s spine. 

Everything had changed, and yet everything was the same. They were intertwined in the same space and time, and nothing else mattered. All of the months of war and pain and suffering felt like a nightmare from which he had just woken up. He was cleansed, as if their sweat could wash away the dirt and blood that stained his skin. Nothing else existed except the two of them becoming one, becoming whole together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -Sorry for the kinda late update -- my classes have been keeping me quite busy. I'll do my best to keep to the update schedule though, so be on the lookout. 
> 
> -Thanks for taking this ride with me, ya'll! We're over halfway there. Maybe two thirds of the way there? Idk, don't ask me. I'm terrible with math. 
> 
> -Getting tired of the smut? Would you like to see more plot or varied situations? Comments are welcome, because tbh I'm totally winging this and I'll take suggestions into account. This is an evolving work, after all. 
> 
> -Note: I've been reading a lot of queer non-fiction lately, and I have some sources for you guys. 1. My Country, My Right to Serve: Experiences of Gay Men and Women in the Military, World War II to the Present, by Mary Ann Humphrey. 2. Gay Old Girls, by Zsa Zsa Gershick. 3. Evening Crowd at Kirmser’s: A Gay Life In The 1940s, by Ricardo J. Brown.


	18. Internal Combustion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Howling Commandos continue their mission deep into enemy territory.

Bucky woke to the scent of coffee wafting from the kitchen. He was in a bed with damp sheets that were in a tangle, and his pillow had fallen on the floor. Faint traces of sunlight slanted in through the wooden shutters on the window. Bucky rolled over, hoping to go back to sleep, but knowing that the coffee would likely be gone if he did. It was a tough decision. Hopefully, Steve would save him some. 

“What’re you doing, Buck? S’not morning already, s’it?” Steve curled against his side, wrapping his arms around Bucky’s chest. 

“Steve? I thought you were already up.” 

“Does it look like I’m up?” Steve stirred with a groan. “What time is it?” 

“How the hell should I know? We could have been attacked and we wouldn’t have known a thing. You did set a watch, didn’t you?” 

Steve gave him a dark look that was mitigated by his mussed hair and yawn. “Of course I did. I took first watch. Weren’t you paying attention?” 

“No, not really.” 

Bucky got up stiffly, pulling on his boxers and then his rumpled clothes. Steve slowly followed suit, and they were about to walk out the door when Bucky stopped. 

“Wait,” Bucky said. “You go first. I’ll be down in a minute.” 

“Bucky.” Steve looked at him with a confusing mixture of amusement and disappointment. “I’m pretty sure the rest of the men could hear us. Hell, Hitler himself could have heard us.” 

“Speak for yourself,” Bucky muttered. “You’re the one who never shuts up.” 

Steve grabbed Bucky’s hand and pulled him out of the room. “Come on. It’ll be all right, I promise you.” 

Bucky wanted coffee too much to argue, so he followed Steve into the kitchen, trying not to look guilty. He combed his fingers through his hair and plopped down on one of the open wooden chairs around the kitchen table. 

“Well, look who’s awake.” Jones said, pouring himself a cup of coffee near the stove. 

Dernier stood smoking with one hand and scrambling eggs with the other, while Monty and Dugan sat at the table playing cards. Jones took his coffee to the table and joined them. 

Steve opened his mouth, as if he were going to tell them to quit gambling again, but he closed it and went to pour himself a cup of coffee. 

Monty look up at Bucky’s disheveled hair and rumpled clothes, then glanced at Steve’s flushed face. Steve tried to surreptitiously cover the slight mark Bucky had left on his neck with his hand, then popped the collar of his shirt up to try and hide it. For a moment he looked tense, but as the men barely concealed their laughter, he relaxed and turned a brighter shade of pink. 

Monty scowled. He rummaged in his pack for some pound notes that he shoved into Dugan’s hand. The smirk slid off Dugan’s face when he looked down and saw the pound notes in his hand. 

“You cheating bastard,” Dugan said. “I can’t use these!” 

Monty gave a smug shrug and laid his hand of cards on the table. “You didn’t say it had to be in dollars.” 

Steve ignored the exchange and squinted at the rancid butter he was about to put on his toast. He set it aside with a sigh and settled for a cup of coffee from the pot on the stove. He straightened his shoulders, as if checking himself, and tried to smooth the wrinkles in his shirt. 

“All right, men,” Steve said. “Let’s get ready to move out. We have some ground to cover before we get to the HYDRA facility.” 

“Eggs, Cap?” Dernier slid some of the creamy, lush scrambled eggs into a bowl. 

“Thanks,” Steve said. “They look swell.” 

Jones looked over his coffee cup with a raised eyebrow. “What in the hell did you do to those eggs? They look like soup.” 

“It’s not my fault that you uncouth Americans don’t know how to properly cook eggs,” Dernier said. “American eggs are as dry as cardboard. It’s pitiful.”

“Finally, someone who understands my pain.” Monty agreed. He took a bowl and started spooning eggs into it. “You just can’t get proper eggs around here with these Yankees.” 

Dugan shrugged. “If it’s food, I’ll eat it.” 

“Count me in,” Bucky said. He didn’t remember when his appetite had decreased, but ever since he had gotten back, he hadn’t been able to stomach much food. But now he was starving, and the creamy, butter yellow egg curds in the velvety rich sauce made his mouth water. 

Steve spooned his eggs onto his toast and bit into it with a crunch. A look of bliss passed his face that made Bucky flush. The last time he had seen Steve make that face was last night when he was crying out Bucky’s name in hot pants. Somehow, the thought of everyone else seeing that vulnerable look of Steve’s made him jittery. 

“At least someone has taste around here,” Dernier said, preening. 

*****

By late morning they were packed and ready to move. They picked their way carefully across enemy territory, and by dusk they had reached the woods on the outskirt of the HYDRA facility. Steve checked that they were all ready one last time before giving the signal to move out. 

It felt unreal, with Bucky’s boots crunching in the snow and dead pine needles, and the scent of delicate decay hanging in the air, sharpened by the cold. He felt his breath burning in his lungs, felt his cheeks whipped red by the wind, but all of it felt like it was happening to someone else. It was uncanny, like he had snuck into a movie theater and was watching himself on the silver screen. 

The facility was eerily quiet when they approached. No visible guards, just as Monty had reported when he had scouted ahead. The skin between Bucky’s shoulder blades crawled as they slipped in the facility. It was too easy. Bucky swallowed hard, trying to shake off the feeling of a noose being tightened around his neck. He scanned the factory for movement, for life, fingers twitching at every perceived presence. 

They went farther into the facility, and Bucky’s chest twanged with an odd relief when they encountered a guard. Before the man could spot them, Bucky had his knife to his throat. There was no room for thinking or hesitation. 

The blood splashed warm against Bucky’s clothes, and he eased the body to the concrete floor. Steve glanced at him with a look that made Bucky ache. Steve was too good of man to be in war. Even after all he must have seen, Bucky saw the empathy and vulnerability etched onto his face. He had too much kindness, too much empathy. Feelings like that could destroy a man. Bucky didn’t know how Steve could stay human when everything around him screamed of inhumanity. 

They pressed on, Steve taking point, his shield drawn. Bucky kept his eyes trained for more enemies. For all Steve’s bravery, it seemed a stupid thing to go into battle with a shield and not a gun. Steve was lucky to have such a good team backing him up. Bucky knew he could trust them with his life. He had, many times. But even that gut knowledge didn’t stop his intestines from tying themselves into knots as they reached the open floor of the factory, where all the machines and weapons were assembled. 

At Steve’s signal, Jones and Dernier covered the right flank, while Dugan and Monty covered the left. Steve and Bucky took the center as they advanced cautiously into the open assembly room. It was empty, and parts were still laying on the assembly lines half assembled. There were no guards in sight. Bucky didn’t like it. Did HYDRA know they were coming? Was their intel false? Had this factory been already abandoned? If so, why the guards? 

Every one of Bucky’s nerves screamed as he followed Steve, threading between the carts of metal pipes and the machines splashed with oil and rust. Some of them must have been there since the Great War at least, recycled from the war to end all wars. There was a high pitched, piercing whine in Bucky’s ears. 

Two shots rang out, and Bucky jumped, swiveling towards the right where Jones and Monty were. Jones was standing over a body with his gun out. 

“Status, Jones,” Steve called out. 

“All good, Cap. Missed a little the first time around, is all.” 

Steve and Bucky took metal stairs at the far end of the room and led to the upper floors. The rest of the men joined them briefly before splitting off into pairs at the second floor. 

“All right, boys. Let’s raze the place to the ground,” Steve said. “And if you see anything that looks important, stuff it in a bag and we’ll send it off the folks that analyze that kind of thing. Let’s shut this factory down.” 

“Aye, aye, Cap,” Dugan said, and the rest of the men echoed his sentiment. Only Bucky remained silent as he and Steve went through the corridors of the second floor. 

The stopped in several rooms, but they were all empty. Some looked more like offices, with typewriters on wooden desks in the corner. Bucky almost wished for someone tangible. He wanted to see his enemy. By the time they reached a set of heavy steel doors, Bucky had almost buried the dread. He had almost convinced himself that the fear was just the rush of adrenaline, but as he neared the heavy doors he knew. Ice filled his veins and formed crystals in his lungs. It hurt to breathe. He shifted his grip on his rifle, trying to keep his sweaty hands from slipping. 

Bucky’s lips parted. They almost moved, but only a ghost of a whisper came out as Steve pushed open the doors. Bucky covered him, but it was unnecessary. The lab was as empty as the rest of the rooms had been. 

The stench of feces, rubber, rubbing alcohol, and dried blood assaulted his nose. He almost gagged, and he saw Steve grimace. Cages lined the rows of the room. Large, with thick metal bars. Large enough to fit a single human. He thought he saw movement in the shadows, but his gaze was riveted to the center of the room. A metal chair sat underneath the naked light bulb, with a mass of machinery at the back of it. 

Bile burned Bucky’s throat. He stood there, shaking and gripping the barrel of his gun with white knuckles. There was blood in his mouth, and a stinging in his lip. He unclenched his jaw and wiped the blood away with his wrist, smearing it red. 

“Bucky?” 

“It’s fine,” Bucky snapped. “Let’s just go.” 

“No, look.” Steve strode over to the cages. 

Pale fingers, more bone than flesh, gripped the metal bars. There was a rattling, wet cough. “Acqua. Acqua.” 

“Oh my God,” Steve whispered. He stood there for a moment before composing himself. “It’s okay. We’re going to get you out of here. You’re going to be okay.” 

Steve knelt down to look at the lock that was on the outside of the cage. Bucky didn’t want to move, but his feet carried him closer. He tried to shut his eyes, but they were drawn to the figure in the cage. His stubbled cheeks melted into the shadows that cast the sunken sockets of his eyes in darkness. He was emaciated, with angry red sores on his bare arms and legs and dried blood in streaks down his temples, matting the dark waves of his hair. His knees were drawn up, but his legs and the bottom of his bare feet were smeared brown. 

“Acqua,” the man rasped. 

“As soon as we get out of here,” Steve promised. He stood up. He raised his shield above his head and brought it down in one swift movement, shattering the lock. 

The man crawled out of the cage slowly, his limbs shaking with the effort. Steve helped him to his feet, and the man stumbled. 

“Can you walk?” Steve asked him. 

The man stared. 

“Can you walk?” Steve made a scissoring motion with two fingers on the flat of his palm. 

The man shook his head, and Steve hoisted him up as easily as if he were a child. The man looked like he didn’t weigh much more than one. 

“Are there any more people trapped here?” Steve asked the man. 

The man pointed to the other cages. They were filled with corpses. 

Before Steve could give another order, Bucky strode up to the metal chair. He took up piece of twisted pipe on the floor and swung it as hard as he could, as if he were going for a home run in the last inning. The metal was rough in his grip, and it bit into his palms, but he kept swinging until he had smashed the chair to pieces. Then he took the metal pipe to the buttons of the control panel, breaking everything he could get his hands on. By the time the pipe clattered to the floor, the pipe had stripped his palms raw and bloody. 

“Let’s go,” Bucky said, not looking at Steve. 

He took the lead as Steve hoisted the man onto his shoulder. The man would probably be dead before they got him to safety, but Bucky held his tongue. It would be more of a mercy to shoot him right now, but he wouldn’t have dared say that to Steve’s face. 

By the time they got to the entrance of the second floor, the rest of the men were waiting for them. They were about to make their way down the stairs when Monty called out. There were a group of men near the entrance. One was splashing a can of gasoline onto the cement. Bucky dove out of the way as bullets ricocheted off the bottom of the metal stairs. 

The firefight lasted a few seconds at most, but time was fragmented and splintered. 

“Dum-Dum, don’t hit the fucking gasoline can!” Bucky shouted as Dugan aimed at the man with the gasoline who was drawing out his gun. 

“I’m trying to shoot the bastard,” Dugan said. “Have some faith!” 

Steve was easing the man to the ground, trying to cover him with his shield. His kindness was going to get him killed one day, but not if Bucky had a say in it. Bucky shot the man on the ground floor who had been aiming at Steve while his attention was occupied. 

“Barnes!” Monty shouted. 

An impact hit his Bucky’s shoulder, and the clang of metal on metal rang out in the clamor of fighting. Bucky took aim and shot at the man coming up the stairs, then glanced down, expecting blood. Instead, he found Steve crouching at his feet with his shield raised. 

“Careful,” Steve panted. “You gotta pay attention.” 

“Jesus, Mary and Joseph! If I hadn’t have had to look out for your ass, this wouldn’t have even happened.” 

“Even Steven,” Steve said with a grin, springing up to shield the both of them. 

“I always said you’d end up being a meat shield in the war,” Bucky said.

“Worked out well, didn’t it?” 

There was a crackle and pop, and bright bursts of red and orange flickered at the edge of Bucky’s vision. 

“What the fuck did I tell you, Dum-Dum?” he shouted. 

“Don’t blame me! It was that bastard down there lighting up a fucking cigarette. But damn, if that ain’t the most stylish way to go. Hope he’s smoking that damn thing in Hell.” 

“It’s clear, Cap!” Jones said. 

“Head out,” Steve said. He turned back to the man on the ground. Blood pooled onto the concrete and dripped down the stairs. 

“We have to go,” Bucky said, taking Steve’s arm. 

Steve paused. 

“Now, Steve! The whole place going down in flames. He’s dead! There’s nothing you can do.” 

Steve let himself be pulled away, but not before Bucky caught the look on his face. It sent a shiver down his spine, and he wondered if he had been wrong. There was no empathy on his face in that moment. There was nothing but solidified rage, righteous anger that burned hotter than a thousand suns. His eyes blazed with the raw power of a star, and rage hardened his features into tempered steel. Any empathy had evaporated in the heat of his fury. Bucky understood what the army had done to him, how it had hardened him and shaped him. It had stoked the fires of his anger and kindled his indignation of injustice to an inferno, and Bucky pitied anyone who stood in his path.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -We're nearing the end of the War arc. Get ready for the Winter Soldier arc next! (As if Bucky needed any more angst.)


	19. The Sunshine Patriot

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's a hard winter, and The Howling Commandos go on a mission to free 1,000 men from a HYDRA battalion near Stalingrad.

Bucky woke in the smoky, pre-dawn darkness. He shifted closer to Steve, but the pallet beside him was empty, and his blanket was stiff with ice. He crawled out of the tent and started stretching his limbs, trying to get the blood flowing. 

“Hey, sunshine.” Steve smiled. “You’re up early.” 

“Call me that one more time and the army’s going to end up with another ‘accidental’ casualty,” Bucky said. He took the tin mug of coffee that Steve offered, wrapping his hands around the fire-warmed metal. 

Bucky crouched over the fire sitting in a depression scratched into the frozen ground. “You’re gonna get us killed with this, you know. You should have at least waited until daylight.” 

“We’d freeze without it. Besides, you can’t see anything from these woods. No one’s looking this way, and even if they were, they wouldn’t see a thing.” 

“You shouldn’t have taken me on this mission,” Bucky knew he was just slowing Steve down, being a burden. Steve didn’t even need a fire—he could do without it. He didn’t need to keep taking rests—they were for Bucky’s sake, and he knew it. 

“Nonsense. I needed your skills, Buck. No one else shoots like you do. I needed you—I’d go crazy alone in this wasteland. Besides, would you really have stayed behind?”   
Bucky drank his coffee before it cooled and warmed his hands over the fire that was bound to get them killed. 

They packed up their things quickly and set out at a brisk pace. Every moment they lagged, another soldier died. That’s what Steve kept saying. Steve just couldn’t get used to the idea of death—he took it as a personal offense, when it was really the whole point of war. But when had logic ever gotten in the way of his righteous indignation? Bucky wondered how such a relentless idealist ever survived, but Steve was nothing if not a survivor. Maybe he clung to his ideals out of the same stupid stubbornness that dragged him into every scrape he ever got in. 

At noon, they stopped in a patch of pale sunlight filtering down through the trees to eat their rations. Bucky leaned against the tree trunk and used a stick to poke at the small fire they had used to heat their frozen meals. He tried not to notice Steve watching him with restless sweeps of his eyes. Bucky stood up before he had really caught his breath, and his muscles protested. He felt frozen from the inside out. 

“Let’s go,” Bucky said. 

“You sure?” 

Bucky kicked the fire and threw snow and pine needles over it. Then he shouldered his pack and started walking. They walked in silence until the early winter darkness shrouded the forest, and then they set up camp again. 

After he had made a fire, Bucky risked taking off his boots for a moment—the foot-wraps he had taken from a Russian soldier were stained with fresh blood from the blisters on his feet and damp from melted snow. He put them back on and stuffed his feet into the boots. There was nothing to do unless he wanted to take his boots off long enough to get frostbite and gangrene. He didn’t fancy being an amputee, so he crowded his boots almost into the flames, wincing with discomfort as his feet thawed and filled with needles.

“I’m sorry,” Steve said quietly. “You would have been better off in camp.” 

“Don’t apologize. If I was back at camp I’d be starving with the rest of ‘em.” 

“You’re starving now.” 

“Yeah, well, I’m used to it.” 

Steve crouched next to him, reaching out to smooth his hand against the rough stubble of Bucky’s chin and up across his sharp cheekbones. His fingers were cold, but Bucky didn’t protest. Bucky leaned into him, looking up. Steve’s face was sharper now, more like what Bucky was used to. His face was drawn with lines of worry and pain. He was thinner, if you could call him thin anymore. His eyes were haunting. Looking at them was like looking through the glass of the large tanks in the aquarium they had gone to as kids and seeing the dark depth of the waters and all the beautiful, strange, frightful things just beneath the surface. 

“Do you regret it?” Bucky asked. 

Steve didn’t ask what. “No. I would do it over again if I could. I’m doing good, Buck. There’s a lot of terrible things, sure, but at least I’m doing some good, too. I don’t want to be helpless anymore.” 

“Mission accomplished, I guess.” Bucky gave a dry laugh and turned into a cough. A flicker of fear spread through him at the thought of getting sick again. This time, there was no way he’d make it. Bucky wasn’t sure what scared him more—the fact that he didn’t feel afraid of death anymore, or that he was still terrified of leaving Steve. 

“What are you going to do after the war?” Bucky asked. He didn’t know why he needed an answer to the question he had never wanted to think about before. Talking about things made them solid, right? 

“I dunno.” Steve said. “Haven’t thought that far ahead, I guess. I want to finish college. Get an art degree. Maybe I can teach classes or something, make a little art on the side. I mean, I’m no Picasso, but… I think that would be nice.” 

“And Peggy?” 

“What about her?” 

“You said after the war was over, you’d…” 

Steve’s lips thinned. “Buck, why now? You know I love you, and that’s all there is to it. Why do you want to know what I don’t even know myself? Where do you see yourself in five years, huh? Graduated, married to some gal you met at a dance, moving to the suburbs and getting a house together?” 

“No,” Bucky said. 

He didn’t know what his future held. He didn’t want to know. He couldn’t even hold onto the dreams of living with Steve like they had done before. All of his dreams had crumbled, slipping like sand through his fingers. All he knew was that even if he made it out alive, nothing would be the same, and Steve wouldn’t be waiting for him back in Brooklyn. The thought made his heart quicken, as if Brooklyn had been carpet bombed during the night and destroyed and he had no home to come back to. Steve was his home. He couldn’t think of a life that didn’t have Steve in it. He could see himself drifting through life aimlessly, trying to piece together the way his life was before the war and always missing the most important part.

“What makes you think I’m going to be around that long?” Bucky said. The words were a bitter relief on his tongue, a pressure lifted off his chest, steam from a screaming kettle. “I’d rather die a hero than live long enough to be some washed up vet who doesn’t have a home or a family.” 

“Don’t say that,” Steve said. “You’ll always have a home as long as I’m around. I’m your family.” 

Bucky shut his eyes. “I’m going to die here. I want to die here. I should have died.” 

“Bucky.” Steve’s tone was sharp, with a raw, painful edge. “You’re going to get through this, I promise.” 

“You can’t promise that. Besides, who are you to talk? You were the one who wanted to be a martyr before we started this. Isn’t that what you wanted—to be a hero, never caring about anything other than what you could exchange for your life? Well, I don’t want mine. I’m done with it. I’m just an old coat that’s too damn holey to even wear anymore.” 

Steve’s jaw was tight, and Bucky wasn’t sure if it was because he was trying not to cry or trying not to say something stupid. Probably both. He was always so emotional. He of all people should understand how Bucky felt. After all, hadn’t he said the same thing before the war? Bucky watched Steve simmering, and there was a sudden flash of anger in his eyes that made Bucky flinch. 

“You’re going to live, goddamn it. I won’t let you die. If you, if you… If you die, I won’t forgive you. James Buchanan Barnes, I want you alive. I need you alive. I don’t care if it’s selfish or not, don’t you dare die on me! Understand?” 

Bucky nodded, stunned. 

“Promise me.” It was an order, but there was a desperate, pleading, childish echo in its fierceness. “No more talk of dying.” 

“I promise,” Bucky said. 

*****

It was dawn when they finally reached the camp behind enemy lines where HYDRA had set up their blockade. The sun set fire to the crisp edge of the horizon, licking at the white envelope edge of the sky in pinks and golds and bright reds. 

Bucky glassed the valley below them, looking for the signal. 

“Did they do it?” Steve asked. 

“I can’t tell. Wait, I see something. Yes. Damn that French bastard, he was right! They did get there quicker than us.” 

“Bucky, focus.” 

“Right, yeah. Just give the signal and I’m ready to go. You got it, Cap.” 

“Stay here and cover me,” Steve said, shouldering his shield and his gun. “Once I give the signal to Dernier, all hell’s gonna break loose. It’ll be a distraction, and you need to take advantage of that.” 

“Stay here? What the hell, Steve? You’re not going into a HYDRA base alone. I’m coming with you.” 

“No, you’re staying here.” Steve turned back with a dead-serious expression. 

“But—” 

“That’s an order,” Steve said quietly in a tone that made Bucky balk. Steve drew himself up before Bucky could even open his mouth. “I am your commanding officer, and you will obey me. There are men dying down there, and we don’t have time to waste.” 

Steve flashed the signal down the valley with his pocket mirror, then headed down the slope quickly, not glancing back. Bucky chafed at Steve’s casual assumption of his obedience, but he stayed where he was. He told himself that he was still listening to Steve, and not Captain America, but he wasn’t sure anymore. 

The explosion was larger than he had expected. Bucky felt it under his boots, and the camp below burst into chaos as the explosions were set off like dominoes. Bucky did his job, swearing all the while as he took careful aim at the sentries and guards who were scurrying around like ants when their hill has been stepped on. There was no way in hell he was going to let Steve get shot. He had seen enough of that, and the thought of anymore blood being on his hands was too much to even think about. 

His mind was a fresh sheet of copy paper, a blank carpet of snow and ashy sky. His finger needed no thought to pull the trigger—his body could operate just fine without him. Better, even, than when his mind took over and spun out of control and caused a tremor in his hands. Blank, clean, empty. Exactly how he liked it. Exactly how it had to be. 

He caught the flashes of Steve in his red, white, and blue uniform, rushing past the gates with his shield flashing in the sun. His Steve, who would never run away from a fight. Bucky guessed he’d gotten used to making sure Steve got out of all his scrapes all right. After all, if he was gone, who would make sure Steve didn’t do anything too stupid? Who would protect him from himself? He couldn’t leave Steve to his own devices—he’d be dead within a week. 

The firefight reached a crescendo like fireworks on the Fourth of July before it wound down. There was a stamp of feet and a mighty cheer that echoed through the valley, and Bucky smiled as he caught the words. There were a thousand men all chanting the same thing, a thousand lives saved from the same fate Bucky had escaped, and they were all singing the praises of the man who had given Bucky his life back. The man Bucky wanted to give his life to. The one who made Bucky’s life worth living, even when nothing else did. 

“Three cheers for Captain America,” Bucky said with the crowd. He saw Steve through his scope, bloody but unharmed, dirty but grinning. He smiled, glimpsing the flash of metal and spool of chain in one of Steve’s pockets. The compass, still there, still pointing north. “Till the end of the line.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -Next chapter (or maybe two) will wrap up the war arc, so get ready to shift gears. I'm excited for the change of scope!


	20. Take Me On

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The moment you've all been waiting for.

The whiskey burned in Steve’s throat. He had never liked the taste of it, but he didn’t want to. The bottle was half-empty, and he wasn’t even tipsy. His head pounded, but it wasn’t the alcohol. He drank some more just to feel the burn in his throat. 

The light from the bare bulb above him was hot grains of sand in his eyes. The shadows poured over him like molasses, and he was covered with it, drowning. It had been a long time since his lungs had acted up, but he couldn’t breathe, and the tight, familiar panic filled him almost with a sense of normalcy. 

He sat there trying to breathe, but his thoughts were slippery and provided no purchase, and he really couldn’t think of a reason to breathe anyway. He knew if Bucky were here, he would tell him to get a grip, and then Steve would shape up and get ahold of himself and stop gasping like a fish out of water, but Bucky wasn’t here, and he wasn’t going to be here, and—

Whiskey and shards of glass poured into Steve’s lap. He looked down at his clenched hands, and the thick edges of glass cutting into his palms, blood sliding off the smooth edges and dripping onto the table. He picked the pieces out of his skin one by one, setting them on the table next to the pool of red-tinged whiskey. 

He closed his eyes as a hysterical laugh bubbled up past the knot in his throat. His hands stung, and the whiskey that soaked into the cuts burned. He focused on that, on the pain. It was a familiar presence, a constant in his life that had suddenly been ripped out. He hadn’t realized how much he had missed it, how much he had needed it to anchor him. Without it, Steve felt like he was floating through life. Untethered, unmoored, just drifting like smoke and ashes across the sullen grey sky. Steve glanced around the room, checking to make sure he was alone. His skin crawled with guilt. 

Steve brushed the glass off his lap carelessly, leaving darker stains on top of the whiskey soaked fabric. He would have to wash it anyway. He tugged at the collar of his uniform, wishing he could strip it off right now. His fingers brushed the marks along his throat and he still felt the lines across his back. He swallowed thickly. The last thing and the only thing he wanted to do was to think about anything other than the present, but the memories came anyway, just another way to rub salt into his wounds, another way to bask in the pain. 

*****

“You’ve had enough, Buck.” 

Bucky stubbed out the end of his cigarette and flicked it out of the tent next to the others. “I thought you said it didn’t bother you.” 

“It doesn’t, but you’ve had enough.” 

“Says who?” Bucky struck another match, letting it burn close to his fingertips before putting his out. His other hand still toyed with the end of another cigarette in his pocket. 

“Says me.” 

Bucky glanced up at him sharply, lips parted. “That an order?” 

The shadows played at the edges of Bucky’s face and darkened his eyes. Steve shivered, his mouth drying up, words withering in his throat. 

“We have a long day tomorrow,” Steve said. “You oughta get some sleep.” 

“I won’t get any sleep tonight, just like any other night, and you know it.” Bucky shifted closer, and his hand rested on Steve’s thigh. “Why don’t we make the most of that?” 

“Buck,” Steve protested, but Bucky had already straddled his waist. 

“Tell me, Steve.” Bucky grinned wickedly, rolling his hips slowly. “What were you saying?”

“It’s late.” 

“I know.” Bucky leaned down, inches from his lips. 

Steve lifted up to kiss him, but Bucky drew back and put a hand on his chest. “Say it.”

“Say what?” 

Bucky laughed. “You know what. Don’t play coy with me.” 

“This is payback, isn’t it?” Steve’s eye fluttered closed as Bucky grinded against him. “Mmm, Buck.” 

Bucky pinned Steve down by his wrists, lowering his hips down. “I’ll make you beg for it. Is that what you want?” 

“No,” Steve arched his hips up. “Just kiss me already. Fuck me.” 

“Is that an order?” 

“Bucky, please!” Steve squirmed underneath him, desperate. “Please!”

“Please what?”

Steve bit his lip. “Please, fuck me already! The war’s going to be over by the time we get started! God, I need you, Buck. Don’t stop. Please, don’t stop.” 

“As you wish,” Bucky murmured, placing his lips on Steve’s collarbone. He took his time kissing his way up Steve’s throat, tasting the vibration under Steve’s skin as he made those low, needy sounds. 

Steve arched his back, pressing against Bucky. Bucky felt his eager strength—Steve had learned to control it, but sometimes he forgot that he wasn’t a hundred pounds anymore. Then again, maybe being smaller for once wasn’t such a bad thing. After all, being small hadn’t stopped Steve from being a bossy little twerp. 

Bucky drew back again with a devilish smile. “I don’t need ropes to keep you down. No, I think you’ll behave just fine. Isn’t that right?” 

“Yes,” Steve rasped. 

“Yes what?” 

“Yes, sir.” Steve said it without irony, with that sweet, earnest sincerity that sent electricity humming underneath Bucky’s skin. With Bucky, Steve didn’t have to be Captain America. With Bucky, he was himself. 

“Good.” Steve melted at that single word, pliable and yielding to Bucky’s touch. Bucky kissed him deep and hard, grinding his hips against Steve’s and feeling the bulge under his tight uniform. God, that uniform. Bucky wanted to personally thank whoever had designed it. Bucky eased off him to take off his clothes, and Steve peeled off his suit, neatly folding it next to the pallets. 

Steve stepped forward and kissed him hard, wanting, pulling him down onto the pallets. 

“Roll over,” Bucky said between kisses. 

Steve obeyed, propping himself up by his elbows on the pushed-together pallets.

“On your knees.” Steve got on all fours, his body tense from the cold. “Spread your legs wider.” 

Steve made a noise that was half pleasure and half embarrassment, but he still complied. He felt Bucky get up, and he turned his head, but Bucky ordered him to look straight ahead and hold his position. 

“This ain’t parade rest,” Steve said, craning his head to get a look at Bucky slicking himself up. 

“Are you sassing me?” Bucky’s voice was low. Steve’s breathe hitched, and a sharp heat flooded his skin. There was something wild and unpredictable underneath Bucky’s voice, and for a moment Steve thought he would bend Steve over his knee right there, the rest of the men be damned. 

“No,” Steve said quickly. He shivered at the thought of Bucky spanking him just a few feet away from the rest of the men. He didn’t think his pride could sustain such a blow, and besides—what kind of message would that send to the men? He was their commanding officer, and he needed to maintain their respect. 

Bucky gave a low, humming laugh as he slid his cold, slick fingers into Steve. Bucky worked Steve with his fingers until Steve was arching his back and squirming. 

“That’s more like it.” Bucky fit his hips against Steve’s and pressed his knees against the inside of Steve’s calves. He gripped Steve’s hips, pulling his ass up and sliding into Steve slowly, thrusting with teasing deliberateness.

Steve ducked his head, bunching up the pallet’s fabric underneath his clenched fingers. “N-not so slow, Buck. You’re gonna make me, I’m gonna—”

Bucky thrusted harder, his nails digging into Steve’s hips and his knees sharp against Steve’s tight calves. Steve bit off a moan. 

“Fuck, Bucky. Jesus, you’re killing me here.” 

“Want me to stop then?” 

“God, no,” Steve panted. “Keep going.” 

Bucky slid his hand along Steve’s waist and up his sides, resting on his shoulder. He grabbed a fistful of hair, pulling Steve’s head up and making him arch. 

“How demanding,” Bucky said, tugging at Steve’s hair. Steve arched further, pushing up on his hands to get more leverage. “Be still. What did I tell you?” 

Steve eased back down with his elbows resting on the pallet, and Bucky loosened his grip. Bucky rocked again in slow, deliberate motions. It was different than the breathless, quick fucks they had had before, but there was an equally desperate quality to it, as if they both felt the sand sliding down the to the bottom of the hourglass. What they were counting down to, Steve didn’t know. All he did know was that there was a wrenching in his gut, a sickening feeling that things were slipping from his grasp. He wanted to hold onto this for as long as he could. 

Bucky broke off a moan and his nails dug into Steve’s shoulders. The sensation hooked a gasp from Steve’s lips, and Bucky laughed in that low growl that made Steve shiver. Bucky’s hips stuttered, and he thrusted harder and faster, nails raking down Steve’s shoulder blades and back. Bucky was clawing at his back like he wanted to crawl under his skin, and Steve wasn’t cold anymore. 

“Buck, I need more. Please!” Steve cried out as Bucky drug his nails across his broad back. It hurt, but he wanted it to. 

He wanted to feel alive, to be marked. He wanted to be Bucky’s. He wanted to have real and undeniable proof that he, Steve Rogers, existed. Bucky was right—he was constantly guilty, constantly craving absolution, and there were so many things to confess. He craved Bucky’s nails across his back and Bucky’s hot breath on his skin. 

“Oh, Steve. Steve, Stevie, Steve.” Bucky repeated it until it was hardly a word or a name anymore, just sounds from his lips and the feeling of his hot breath on slick, damp skin. He repeated it until Steve himself felt deconstructed, unraveled under Bucky’s fingers, unspooled in sharp tugs and panting breaths and relentless thrusts of Bucky’s hips.   
Steve was lost in the pain and pleasure, the dream-like tangible feeling of Bucky’s body pressed against his, the hard angle of Bucky’s knees against his calves and the lean, tempered planes of his hips and waist. Bucky was all he wanted, all he needed, all he had. 

Afterwards, in the sticky silence, Bucky drew him close and Steve curled up to him like he had back in their small bed in Brooklyn. They lay there drowsy and content to let the whole world melt away. Everything melted away in Bucky’s arms. 

Bucky pressed his lips the back of Steve’s neck, whispering all the things that couldn’t be said in daylight. All his plans and dreams and hopes, the faint sketches of his future that he painted in bright colors. An apartment to share, good jobs, syrupy sweet, milky coffee to wake up to in the morning, a place of their own where they could be themselves. And Steve had let himself believe it, because Bucky was no liar, and he wanted it to be true as much as he wanted the war and the needless suffering to be over. He wanted it to be just them again—for once, the weight of the world sat too heavy on his shoulders. 

*****

Steve put his head down on the cool wood of the table. He tried to shake the screams out of his ears, but he didn’t feel like he deserved to forget. He knew he would never forget. He still felt the grasp of Bucky’s hand in his like a brand, even underneath the sting of slice of the glass and the blood slick on his palms. 

His head pounded, and everything had a tinge of unreality. The light was blurring, spinning. He closed his eyes and saw jagged mountains and blinding snow and cliffs like the bleached white teeth of some dead, ancient behemoth, swallowing everything he ever loved. He wished he had fallen instead, but then he realized that he would never want to cause anyone else the same pain he felt right now. 

The tears were dried on his face like a cracked mask. Steve Rogers had gone on that mission, but Steve Rogers hadn’t come back. No, what was here wasn’t anyone named Steve. Bucky had taken that part of him with him. All that was left now was Captain America. He would be what people needed of him, what they expected. It was his duty. Other people needed Captain America. His men needed Captain America, as well as everyone he was fighting for back home. But no one had ever needed Steve Rogers except Bucky.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -Title was inspired by annapatsu over at Youtube. Check out her cool cover of "Take Me On" if you want to be amazed and possibly cry at the same time. 
> 
> -Sorry for the late update. These deadlines and shit are about to kick my ass, but not before I put up a fight.


	21. The Making of a Machine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky is found, and Bucky is lost. He is sealed from the world, and sealed from his mind. It is the beginning of an era, and the end of an era. Change is in the air.

«Это он»?

«Как же ты думаешь? Помоги мне перенести его».

Bucky opened his eyes. His face was caked in ice and blood that cracked when he tried to move. The snow next to him was wine-red. Every nerve in him was raw, but he couldn’t tell if it was from cold or pain. He tried to close his eyes again, but the men who were speaking reached down and grabbed him. He felt the pain then, could separate it into distinct parts. There were a million threads of sensation that he couldn’t describe, like a kaleidoscope of colors flashing before his eyes. His mouth tasted like old pennies. 

Something was missing. Bucky caught a flash of red in the snow, the imprint of his body, shreds of fabric and something dark. His gun? No, something else. He was empty, aching. He closed his eyes. 

*****

His back was flat, and he was strapped to the metal table that felt like a slab of ice under his shoulder blades. There was a light above him, too bright. It hurt, but when he closed his eyes the darkness filled with dirty oranges and pulsing reds. 

Was this Hell? No, that wasn’t right. What about Purgatory? Didn’t he at lead get a chance to plead his case? He knew he should have gone to Mass more, confessed more. Maybe his sister been right. Was this it for him? A vague disappointment welled up in his stomach. 

He didn’t know why he was restrained. He wasn’t moving anywhere. 

There was the tap of boots, and the light dimmed as someone stood in front of it. Men in dirty lab coats and shadowed faces surrounded him. 

«Он не спит».

«Ничего».

Bucky tried to turn his head, but the motion made him almost wretch over the side of the table. His cheek was cold against the gleaming metal. There were grooves running down the sides of it. All he saw was harsh light and blurred movement, and then the light was blocked again. 

Someone shoved a rubber gag into his mouth, and the taste of it made him gag. His blood froze at the gleam of a handsaw. He jerked against his restraints, but his hands wouldn’t move. 

Hand. Only one hand was there on the table. One strap held his right wrist down. He bit down on the rubber mouthpiece and closed his eyes. This couldn’t be real. This was a dream. Just a nightmare, and he would wake up besides Steve in the night and smoke a cigarette in his tent and stare at the stars in the cold. 

He screamed as the jagged teeth tore into him. His body was slick with sweat and blood, and he couldn’t breathe through the smell and the taste of it. The room spun around him—light and metal and blood running down the grooves of the table and the red against his closed eyelids and the harsh rattle of his own breathing and the screams that ripped out of his throat as the saw sliced back and forth, back and forth, back and forth. 

*****

“Drink.” The man said it in Russian. He held a tin cup to Bucky’s closed lips, tilting it up. The frigid water ran down Bucky’s chin and throat. The man forced the water into Bucky’s mouth, but Bucky spit it out in a choking, coughing spray. 

“No.” Bucky knew that word in Russian, at least. 

The man swore at him, but Bucky couldn’t catch the words. He held Bucky’s nose closed and poured the water down his throat. Then he left, leaving Bucky alone in darkness, still strapped down. His body ached, and his shoulder was a mess of screaming sensations. Bucky didn’t want to pull on that thread. If he tried he knew he would go mad. 

At first Bucky counted. He counted to a hundred, and then to a thousand, and then backwards from a hundred by sevens, and forwards by twos. But after a while, the numbers blurred in his head, and his thoughts sat sluggish. 

A doctor came in and checked the wound. Bucky told him that he had to take a piss, but the man ignored him. For a moment his piss was wonderfully warm, but in the frigid air it quickly turned sickly lukewarm. A choked sound rang out, startling him. It was a strangled laugh. His pants were cold and wet. He fell asleep again, and woke up with a falling sensation. 

Someone grasped him under his good arm, and Bucky swung towards the floor. The restraints were loose, and they clanged against the table. The floor was painfully cold on his bare feet, and his legs started to fill with needles. 

They led him out of the room and into light so blinding that he shut his eyes, stumbling wherever they led. When they stopped, it was in another small cell just barely wider than his shoulders. The man holding him up stripped off Bucky’s clothes, with Bucky moving like a poorly puppeteered doll. He stepped hesitantly into the cell when the man shoved him between the shoulder blades. 

Bucky tensed when the water hit him, and his skin broke out in gooseflesh as he huddled under the hard spray of the shower, trying to shield his wounded shoulder. When the man deemed him clean enough, he put Bucky into a hospital gown and yanked him back down the corridors. 

When Bucky saw the stainless steel table polished clean and the instruments beside it, he bucked against the man, throwing out his elbow. The man twisted away from his arm and pushed Bucky down onto the table, barking an order to one of the men guarding the door. When they finally had Bucky strapped to the table, the men in white masks and coats came in with brisk strides. One of them pushed a cart the held a gleaming mass of metal. The prosthetic arm glinted in the light, with a bold, glossy red star stamped on the shoulder. 

“What the hell is going on here? What are you doing to me?” 

One of the doctors reached for the gag. When the doctor leaned over, Bucky spat in his face. The man gave him a scalpel-thin smile and shoved the rubber gag in. 

«Иван Петрович, принести руку. Быстро, пожалуйста».

«Да». One of the men pushed the cart over, then stopped. «Ну… Готов ли он?»

«Теперь, если вы не хотите занять его место.» The senior doctor snapped his fingers, and the man with the cart hurried over. 

They lifted it with difficulty onto the table besides Bucky. He tried to squirm away from the metal, but there was no slack in the restraints. The doctor motioned to his assistant, and they lifted the arm level with Bucky’s shoulder. Another doctor stepped behind Bucky, bracing his shoulder, and the doctors attached the metal to the still raw wound of his shoulder, shoving it into place. 

Bucky screamed. He could feel every nerve of his body filling with lit gasoline, burning. He could feel the metal invading his body, cold and sharp and foreign and so heavy that he couldn’t even lift his shoulder after it had been fitted. He lay there, choking on the screams like he had swallowed broken glass. Even after the doctors had finished fiddling with it, it was still a brand against his skin. When the doctors left him alone, the pain was still smoldering like glowing embers across his body. 

*****

The pain in his arm took weeks to fade, but when it did, they let Bucky out of his cage and led him into the exam room once again. The sight of the chair filled him with a tense dread, a fear so fierce it could have been excitement. Anything to escape the darkness of the cell and his own mind and the endless days of watching his mind spin in circles.   
This time, the table was gone, and the chair stood there in the center of the room, mocking him. It was like he had stepped back into Zola’s lab. He went to the chair without a fight, not wanting to have his head split open by the butt of a rifle. 

“Hello. How nice of you to join us this evening.”

Bucky jerked up at the voice. He opened and shut his eyes, but Zola still stood there with his shit-eating grin. 

“Go to hell, you fucking bastard.” Bucky swore until he ran out of words, and then he swore in the Russian that he had picked up, and in the smattering of Gaelic that he had heard in the slums of Brooklyn from old Irishmen who knew of a life outside of the city. 

“Quite the vocabulary.” Zola smiled. “You learn quickly. That is good. You must be adaptable to survive in this place. We are both flexible, my friend. It is what makes us survivors.”

“I’m nothing like you,” Bucky spat. 

“No? You would do anything to protect your dreams, would you not? To see what you have striven for grow into fruition—that is life’s greatest satisfaction. That American boy—you would do anything for him, yes? You have shed innocent blood to protect him.”

“Shut up. You don’t know anything.” 

“All those young men, slaughtered, some of them without shoes and without rifles. But you couldn’t take a chance of them calling for help, could you? So you shot them. How old were they? The Führer has been desperate. They are children now, not soldiers. You have shot children.” 

Bucky blanched, and the words wouldn’t come. 

“Yes, war is a terrible thing. But it is also a great blessing—without it there can be no progress. It pushes us into the future.” 

“What are you going to do to me? Why are you doing this?” 

Zola laughed. “You ask as if you do not know. Think, boy. You will be the herald of a new dawn. You will be the glorious answer to the question mankind has asked since our birth—how will we rise above all others who stand in our way? You are that answer. You will forge a new path, a new world, and all will see who is superior.” 

“I don’t want to,” Bucky said. “Choose someone else.” 

“I am giving you the gift of immortals, the gift of gods.” Zola took up his notepad. “Be grateful—I have risen you up from the gutter to the stars.” 

Bucky froze as the headgear came down, and the metal dug into his temples. 

“Now, tell me your name.”

“James Buchanan Barnes.” 

“That is wrong.” Zola turned a dial on the machine, and electricity jolted down Bucky’s spine. “You are no one. You have no name. You are a tool, a weapon, an instrument of nations. Now, tell me again—what is your name?” 

“James.” Bucky gritted his teeth as the electricity flooded his body. “Buchanan. Barnes.” 

“Perhaps you are not as quick of a learner as I had thought. I will ask you one last time—what is your name?” 

“Ja—” Bucky’s body convulsed, as if the electricity was ripping him apart from the inside. He screamed, but it was hard to breathe. His rib cage was collapsing, his chest was bursting. There wasn’t enough air. The electricity sliced into his bones, his mind. It devoured him, consuming his thoughts and burning everything away. 

*****

The hair fell into his eyes. It was greasy and lank. He had given up trying to keep it out of his face—it was a Sisyphean task. 

“What is your name?” 

«Я не знаю». The words felt thick on his tongue. Had they always been that way? They felt harsh and unnatural, but he wore them well, just as he wore the metal arm. The language, like the arm, felt grafted on, but he didn’t know if anything had come before it. He was Adam, coming into existence not of his own will, but from the dirt and the will of some higher being. He did not ask to be born. 

“Where is your hometown?” 

«Я… я не знаю».

“Do you know what day today is?” 

«Нет».

“It is the Fourth of July. The Americans are celebrating their independence day.” Zola looked at him expectantly, waiting. 

He didn’t know what to say. There was a gnawing in his stomach like hunger, but it wasn’t hunger. For the first time that he could remember, he wanted to struggle, to rip free of these straps and be done with it all. He longed for something, but it was a memory just out of his reach. It danced like sunlight on water, like watercolors washing over a blank canvas, teasing him. It was a warm memory, not like this eternal cold. 

“Do you remember what today is?” 

«Нет. Я не помню». 

There was a flicker at the edge of his mind. The smell of acrylic paints crisp in the fall air and potatoes boiling on the stove. The whisper of skin and the satin of lips and the sweet-sweat smell. The faint taste of honey and tea on warm lips that cried out with a name he couldn’t quite catch. 

«День рождения… Стива… нем». He stopped. His mind was rusty, welded together. “Steve’s birthday. Today is his birthday.” 

Zola wrote in his notebook. He took meticulous notes in German, and when he was done, he snapped his fingers at one of the assistants nearby. “Wipe him again. This time, do it better.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -This is the end of arc two, ya'll. One more left to go. Also, there may be a delay for the next chapter. I'll try to get it in on time though, but I want to take some time to outline a little. 
> 
> -So, idk if the Cyrillic will work for everyone, but I have an extreme aversion to transliterated Russian. It looks awful, and is in no way helpful as a pronunciation guide. However, if enough people can't view the Cyrillic, I might change to the Latin alphabet. 
> 
> -Also, all the Russian is my own. The mistakes are my own. I tried not to rely on Google translate as much as I could, but it should give you a good translation if you want the dialogue. I'm not a native speaker, so if you spot errors or awkward phrasing, I'd love to improve my language skills (and my credibility as an author). 
> 
> -Russian grammar is different than American English grammar, and I've tried to create an unholy mix of the two here to maintain a shred of accuracy and still have it flow well. If anyone knows of a good resource for Russian grammar (the typography of it, that is), I would greatly appreciate it.


	22. A Man Out of Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> WWII is over, but for Steve it doesn't feel like it. Steve tries to pick up where he left off, but trying to unravel his life is a complicated, messy process.

Steve didn’t know how long he had been hiding in the training room until Natasha found him. Well, he wasn’t hiding. That’s what he told himself as he slumped against the wall of the floor, untwisting his sweat-soaked hand-wraps and flinging them to the floor. He traced the grains of wood beneath his feet until his panting stopped, and then he sat there in silence, still waiting for something to happen, but not knowing what. 

Natasha strode into the room, heading straight for the corner Steve was sitting in. 

“Hey,” she said, feigning nonchalance, as if she had just run into him by chance even though it was two in the morning on a Monday night. It was a good act. 

“Hey.” Steve didn’t look up. 

“That was some stunt you pulled back there,” she said. 

Steve shrugged. “S’nothing. I didn’t need the parachute anyway, so—”

“I’m not here to lecture you.” 

Steve tilted his head back against the wall. “Then why are you here?” 

Natasha folded herself onto the floor with her legs crossed underneath her. She examined her nail polish as if there were the slightest blemish on the nail of her pinky. “You’ve been practicing a lot lately.” 

Steve nodded. He hadn’t seen anyone else awake in the dead of night when he woke up sweating, and no one was ever in the training room so late. Sometimes he saw the lights on in Tony’s workshop, but that was it. He didn’t doubt that Natasha knew, though. She had her ways. 

“You’re a good soldier,” Natasha said. “But is that really all you want to be?” 

Steve tipped up his shoulders in a noncommittal shrug. “I thought you said this wasn’t a lecture.” 

“Well, I lied.” Natasha gave him a wry smile. “Get used to it.” 

The harsh lights of the training room cast sharp shadows on the rubber mats that smelled of sweat and sawdust and metal. Everything blurred. The only color he could distinguish was Natasha’s scarlet hair gleaming in coppers and reds as the light sparked off it. It was darker than usual, curling damply at her neck, and he could smell the scent of her cherry blossom shampoo. 

“I dunno, Nat.” He worked his way around the lump in his throat. “I don’t know anything anymore.” 

Natasha sat there silently, waiting. 

“Everyone I ever knew is gone. Dead.” Steve swallowed thickly. “Most days it’s like I went with them. To everyone else, it’s all history now, but… it’s not. They’re all too blinded with nostalgia to know. Everyone is gone, Nat, and I… I dunno.” 

“You don’t have to figure it all out now,” Natasha said. She put her hand on his knee. “It takes some time. The rest of the world has had that time, but you’re going to need your own. But you’re not alone, Steve.” 

“Yeah,” he mumbled. “I know.” 

“You’d make the least convincing spy,” Natasha said. “Look at me.” 

Her voice was soft, but Steve couldn’t disobey if he tried. He glanced at her softened eyes and thin-pressed lips. 

“You are not alone, Steve Rogers.” 

Then she sprang up, catching his hand and pulling him to his feet. “Now, come watch The Emperor Strikes Back. Tony and Bruce are getting impatient, even though I’m pretty sure they’ve memorized the whole movie by now.” 

“The what now?” 

“It’s from Star Wars, remember? We still haven’t finished the series. Hurry up, or they’re going to eat all the popcorn, and I’m not going to be the one driving to 7-11 in the middle of the night because we’re miraculously out of popcorn.” 

“Right,” Steve said. He pretended not to notice Natasha pretending not to notice the tears in his eyes. “Okay. That sounds swell. Yeah, that sounds good.” 

*****

«Желание. Ржавый. Семнадцать. Рассвет. Печь. Девять. Добросердечный. Возвращение на родину. Один. Грузовой вагон».

Bucky woke up in the hot night air that clung to his skin like a blanket. He was sweating. The bed was empty. Where was he? He heard crickets singing and the wind rasping through grass. It was a dream. It didn’t feel like a dream. It felt real. It was real. But not anymore. Buck reminded himself to breathe. The air felt sticky, and it weighed heavy in his lungs. 

The bed was empty. Was it supposed to be empty? He couldn’t remember. All he knew was that the heat was new. He wasn’t used to the heat, to dry grass that crackled beneath his bare feet, to powder-fine dirt and the smell of goats and the sun like a hot hand on the back of his neck. He hadn’t been hot in a long time. That was the feeling that came to him in the dark with his mind spinning and grasping at straws. 

“Did I wake you?” The voice was soft in the doorway. Steve pulled off his boots and climbed back into bed. “Sorry, I just had to take a walk.” 

“S’fine,” Bucky said. The Russian still clung to his mind like cobwebs, but if he didn’t think about it, it would fade and the words wouldn’t seem so thick on his tongue. With Steve, it was easier to slip into the same old patterns. 

They sat in knowing silence, trapped in their own heads, living and reliving different nightmares. 

“I’m gonna make tea,” Steve said. He got up and clicked on the electric kettle. It still felt odd, but if they had wanted a stove, they wouldn’t have chosen to live out in the middle of nowhere with the goats. Steve liked the quiet and the privacy. It had been too long since he had had either. Besides, it wasn’t like they didn’t get visitors every day.  
“Nothing with caffeine,” Bucky said from the bed. “I don’t want to be up all night.” 

“Oh? That’s the first time I’ve heard you say that.” 

Bucky laughed softly. “Give it a rest, Rogers.” 

Steve poured the tea into mugs and left it to steep on the table. He sat back down on the bed, leaning against Bucky’s shoulder. “So, you like it here?” 

“Yeah.” 

Bucky thought of the dry grass and the sparkling city buildings and the children who looked at him with awe, not fear. Shuri visited him every week, talking about this invention or that, and he felt his wonder and curiosity trickling back to him. He could finally grasp old memories and worn out dreams, and he was slowly piecing his life back together. 

“It’s good here,” Bucky said. “It’s quiet.” 

Steve nodded. His bones ached, and he was tired—not the kind of tired after staying up all night, but the kind of tired it was hard to shake off. He wanted to feel light again, like the weight of the world didn’t rest all on his shoulders. He wanted to only bear his own weight, for once. 

“It almost feels like a home.” Bucky thought of T’Challa and his easy grace that could turn into wry humor in a second, and Shuri’s bubbling, bright enthusiasm, and Okoye’s quiet strength. Sometimes he trained with her just because it felt good to sweat. It felt good to be alive. “It almost feels like a family here. One I could be a part of.” 

“Family, huh?” Steve took Bucky’s hand in his. 

“Something like that.” 

“That’d be real swell, wouldn’t it?” Steve murmured. “A family. Some peace and quiet. Maybe some kids. Barton’s got it all figured out.” 

“What ever happened to you settling down after the war,” Bucky asked, then wished he hadn’t. 

“The war never ended. Not for me, at least. The war just blended into the next, and then the next. I could never catch my breath. And besides, there was no one I wanted to… There was no one else…” 

Bucky leaned closer and rested his head on Steve’s shoulder. “I know.” 

“Then why’d you ask?” 

“Well, I thought… You were talking about family and I… I dunno. It’s late.” 

Steve rose from the bed and went to the table. The tea was something bright, with citrus and spice and an almost smoky flavor. It was perfect. Steve brought the mugs back to bed, and they sat sipping their tea in silence. Bucky wasn’t sure if it was an awkward silence or a companionable one. After you knew someone so well, they all just blurred together. 

When they finished the tea, Bucky took the mugs and set them back on the table. He sidled onto the bed next to Steve. “Stay with me. Stay here. We can make it a home.” 

Steve sighed. “There’s another war coming, Buck. I can’t.” 

“There’s always a war.” Bucky set his hand on Steve’s knee. “You’ve been fighting nonstop, and you’ve served your time.”

“America needs me.” Steve’s voice was low and flat, as if it was something he’d repeated to himself many times. 

“No, it needs Captain America. Lay down your shield. Be Steve again. Live your life. You’ve lived so long for others that you forgot how to live for yourself.” 

“I can’t stand by when so many innocent people are being threatened. What kind of man would I be then?” 

“A sane one.” Bucky smiled, but the smile was thin. 

“I can’t,” Steve said hopelessly. “I can’t.” 

“Then stay here a little longer.” Bucky wrapped his arms around Steve’s waist. “What use will you be to the world if you run yourself ragged?” 

Steve leaned back into Bucky’s arms and closed his eyes. “It’s late, Buck.” 

“So come back to bed.” 

“I’m in bed,” Steve huffed. He turned around to face Bucky. “I guess it won’t hurt to stay another week or two. As long as T’Challa is fine with it.” 

“He will be, I promise. He said we could stay here as long as we wanted, and he’s a man of his word.” 

Steve reached out and ran his fingers through Bucky’s hair. It was long and soft and felt slightly cool between his fingers. He leaned forward and kissed Bucky slowly, aimlessly, his lips painting against Bucky’s mouth and down across his skin. He tasted salt and scars and spicy, citrus tea. 

“I’m not going anywhere right now,” Steve said. 

They stretched out on the bed with the covers at their feet, their bodies tangled and warm together. Bucky curled into Steve, feeling the rise and fall of his chest. Nothing else mattered but the here and now. Bucky let himself drift off with the drowsy heat and the rise and fall and the weight of Steve’s arms around him. The night was still and quiet, like the whole night was catching its breath. 

Bucky tried to be content with the present, and to not let the past or the future creep into this still, warm moment with their cold fingers dragging along his spine. He tried to quiet the whispers in his head. They were fading now, but they were still there. Bucky tried to let go of the cold, tight memories that gripped him and left him breathless, and the thoughts of the future that spun out of control with every new spiral. 

There was only Steve, his solid presence, his warmth, his breath on Bucky’s neck. Bucky anchored himself to Steve, and tried not to worry about what would happen when his anchor was gone. Steve was his compass, his north, his home. He was Bucky’s muddled beginning and Bucky’s present and what kept Bucky striving for the future. 

If Steve was gone, Bucky didn’t know if he could ever fully piece himself together. A part of him would always be raw and sharp-edged without Steve. But for now, he focused on being content. If he cleared his mind, it wasn’t so hard to do. This was all he had wanted for so long after all, that it was hard to complain. For the first time in a long time, he felt whole.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -Sorry for the hiatus! School hit me harder than Regina got hit by that big, yellow school bus. 
> 
> -Things have been chronological so far, but that probably won't be the case in the upcoming chapters. Just an FYI. 
> 
> -Also, I'll try to update every week, but we'll see how it goes. I'm definitely going to finish this to completion though! I didn't write a novel sized fic to stop here! 
> 
> -Thanks for sticking with me this far, folks! You're all peaches! :)


	23. A New Kind of Normal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky makes a big decision, and things start falling back into place in their lives.

A couple days turned into a couple weeks, and soon they settled into a comfortable routine. Neither of them mentioned Steve leaving, and neither of them wanted to. Bucky kept silent, wanting to keep Steve thinking that it was all his own idea. If he had learned one thing over the years, it was that if Steve thought it was his idea, everything always ran smoother. 

When Bucky came back from Shuri’s laboratory, he went straight to the shower. It wasn’t as if he were that dirty, although he maybe smelled like sweat and goats. It was that he couldn’t get the feeling of blood and grime off his skin, couldn’t get the suffocating, tight feeling out of his chest. He forced himself to breathe more slowly. 

Shuri had been so excited, after all. The thought of watching the smile slide off her face made him queasy again. But he couldn’t help it, not when he saw that gleaming metal arm in the middle of that laboratory that smelled of disinfectant and something else that burned in his nose. The room had been spinning, and his knees had barely hit the cold tile floor of the restroom before he vomited into the toilet. He had heard T’Challa and Shuri talking in low voices, but he couldn’t understand them over the ringing in his ears. 

Afterwards, the case with the prosthetic arm was gone, and Shuri spent the evening showing him vines on her phone like nothing had happened. But after a while, he had wanted the space to think, a space to be without pretending like everything was okay. He stripped off the bright, loose fabrics that Okoye said helped him train better and move quicker. Then he stood there looking at the stump of his left arm before plunging into the scalding hot shower. 

By the time he came out, his skin was red and flushed, and he was a lot wetter but no wiser. He dressed in more loose, bright fabrics that draped over his shoulder. The house was claustrophobic and either anxiously bright or depressingly dark, so he went outside into the open air, breathing in the warm, still night air. 

The city lights glittered at the edge of the horizon, and the stars shimmered above him. There were so many that he could see the colors of the sky, the hazy purples and soft greens and clay reds melting into the darkness of the sky and the salt-spray of stars. It had been a long time since he had seen stars like that. He wondered if he had ever seen stars like that, but he didn’t want to sift through the memories. 

“Hey,” Steve said softly, and came out of the light of the doorway to stand by his shoulder. “You good?” 

“Could be better.” 

“Wanna talk about it?” 

Bucky shook his head. He didn’t think he could explain it if he tried. He felt fractured, cracked open, raw. There was a darkness that welled up inside of him, and he didn’t want to let it spill out. If he faced the weight of his sins right now, it would crush him. 

“That’s fine,” Steve said. “I made dinner. It actually turned out pretty good, considering that I didn’t have much of a recipe to go on, and we don’t have a stove.” 

“Thanks,” Bucky said, “But I’m not hungry. I’m sure it’s swell though.” He smelled the scent of spices and cooking onions through the doorway. It smelled something like curry and rice, with so many spices competing for attention that he could hardly tell them apart. 

“I’ll set some aside for you.” Steve paused, then turned around to leave. Bucky wanted to tell him to stay, but the words stuck in his throat, and he couldn’t think of anything that Steve could have said anyway. He was sure that Steve would have sat there all night, just looking at the stars with him, but Bucky didn’t say anything, and Steve went inside. 

The light from the doorway vanished, and Bucky sat down in the dry, prickly grass, looking up at the stars and counting them to anchor his mind to the here and now. It was hot, and dry, and still, and even the crickets were quiet. He focused on the feeling of the ground underneath him, and the expanse of sky above him, and the breath filling him, and only that. 

*****

They put him under for the procedure. Even so, when Bucky walked into the slick, white, shiny hospital, with its artificial, cloying smell, his hand started shaking. It took all of his willpower to go into the room and sit on the table with its crinkly wax paper crackling under him. 

Shuri promised him it would be in and out. That simple. Just like going to sleep and waking up. The whole thing still made Bucky’s skin crawl, but he focused on the results. Steve had told him a thousand times that it was his choice and his choice alone, and Bucky had decided that he wanted this, although he still wasn’t sure he could have said why. He wasn’t sure it would have made sense to anyone else. But he wanted to do this. He needed to. 

The last thing he remembered before the procedure was Steve smiling even as Bucky gripped his hand too hard. When he woke up, the sleek metal arm was glaring in the florescent lights, and his chest was hammering. Steve was sitting in the chair next to his bed with a half empty Styrofoam coffee cup beside him and a battered copy of Catcher in the Rye in his lap. 

“How do you feel?” Steve asked. 

“Normal enough. Hungry.” Bucky took a deep breath. “When can I get out of here?” 

“Soon,” Steve promised. “Then we can go get something to eat. We can even go to that little hole in the wall downtown if you want.” 

“Sounds swell,” Bucky said. “I could go for a damn strong cup of coffee right now.” 

*****

The weeks passed in a progression of physical therapy and regular therapy, and things got better. Steve didn’t mention it much because he’d rather not jinx it, but there was something vibrant in Bucky’s smile, something calmer in his silences. They were piecing their lives back together, stitching them up into a quilted blanket of the way things used to be and the way things were now. 

“Buck, lay off.” Steve leaned closer to him on the couch. “You’ve had plenty to drink.” 

“I’ve had two drinks.” Bucky circled his arm around Steve’s shoulder. “Calm down, Mr. Teetotaler. Besides, this is a special occasion.” 

“Special occasion, my ass.” 

“Our friend T’Challa was so generous as to gift us the finest Irish whiskey money can buy.” 

“Buck, you know they sell whiskey at the grocery store, right? Besides, this is hardly the most—” 

“Shhhh.” Bucky waved his hand in front of Steve and took another drink. “Let me savor the nostalgia. Besides, this is damn good whiskey.” 

Steve narrowed his eyes. “Now you’re just taunting me.” 

“Oh, relax. Have some tea or something. You’re just jealous of my whiskey now that Thor isn’t around to give you some of that nectar of the gods shit that gets you half under.” 

“I’m just sayin’ it’s chintzy booze, that’s all,” Steve said. 

“Oh, are you calling me tasteless? That’s rich—let’s check again and see who still wears a red white and blue onesie.” 

Steve grinned. “You know you love it. You’re the one who wanted me to keep it in the first place.” 

“Well, you look better without anything at all,” Bucky said. He leaned over and kissed Steve, drawing him up onto his lap. 

Steve straddled Bucky’s hips, tasting the whiskey on Bucky’s lips. For the past few weeks he had been almost hesitant, unsure of this new rhythm, but this felt like before, and Steve wanted to be devoured, consumed in this heat. 

“Bed,” Steve rasped, almost a question, and he shifted off Bucky’s lap. 

Bucky stripped off his clothes unceremoniously, and Steve followed suit. Bucky tugged him onto the bed and pushed him down onto the sheets. He climbed on top of Steve, resting with Steve pinned between his arms and his hips flush against Steve’s. 

“What took you so long?” Bucky asked between kisses. 

“I don’t know, I didn’t want to push you. I didn’t know if you were ready or not, and—” 

“Well I’m ready now,” Bucky said, “so shut up and kiss me.” 

Steve reached up and curled his fingers in Bucky’s hair, tugging him down further. Bucky moaned low in his throat. He sucked Steve’s bottom lip between his, and then made his way down Steve’s neck to his collarbone until Steve was squirming. Steve curled his fingers tighter in Bucky’s hair and grinded his hips against Bucky’s. 

Bucky rolled off Steve and grabbed the lube from the bedside table. They slicked themselves up quickly, breathlessly, and then Bucky slung Steve’s feet over his shoulders and pinned him against the bed.

“I can’t wait anymore,” Bucky said. 

“Then don’t.” 

Bucky grabbed his hips and slid into him. Steve gasped at the feeling of cold metal and warm flesh on his hip and the feeling of being full. Soon, Bucky was thrusting hard and fast. His lips were bitten red, and his eyes were bright. The room was filled with Bucky’s ragged gasps and Steve’s short, sharp cries. 

Bucky hitched Steve up further and thrusted with relentless, desperate energy. His fingers dug into Steve’s hips, and his lust-glazed eyes flickered closed. 

«Как хорошо. Ах, Стивичка. Да, да, да! Ещё!»

Steve lost himself in Bucky’s rasping pants and low cries, letting his bizarre mix of rough Russian and outdated English slang wash over him. It was a symphony of sweat and salt and skin. Their bodies melted together, fluid in the heat. 

After they had collapsed on the sheets, still tangled together, Bucky tensed, and his drowsy contentment faded. 

“Did I hurt you?” 

“No,” Steve said. “Of course not.” 

“I should have gone slower. I’m sorry, I—I wasn’t really myself.” 

Steve placed a hand on Bucky’s shoulder. “Nothing was wrong, Buck. I promise, it was amazing.” 

“You sure?” 

“Would I lie to you?” 

Bucky smiled. “God, it was good. You felt so damn good, Stevie.” 

Steve raked a hand through Bucky’s sweaty hair. “Mm, come on. Let’s take a shower. It’s hot and sticky enough as it is.” 

Bucky grinned. “Makes those Brooklyn summers feel like nothing, doesn’t it?” 

Steve slid out of bed and pulled Bucky up. “Come with me. There’s room for two.” 

“If you insist,” Bucky said, “but you know as well as I do that it’ll be a waste of your time to take a shower now.” 

Steve raised his eyebrow. “Oh?” 

“Don’t play coy with me, Rogers.”

“Mm, who said I was being coy? I can do this all night.” Steve winked and let Bucky tug him back onto the bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -Hey, so I was proof-reading this chapter last night between doing homework, and I fell asleep somewhere around 3. I guess a few hours doesn't make so much of a difference at that point, so I'm going to post it on a Friday for once. 
> 
> -The smut is back by popular demand. More to come soon. ;)
> 
> -I'm not super knowledgeable about most aspects of the disabled community, and there was a limited amount of researching I could do on a time crunch, so if anyone has any feedback, resources, or thoughts about Bucky's disability, I would love to hear it.


	24. The Uncoiling of the Universe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky and Steve tentatively try to recreate the intertwined lives they once had, but it's easier said than done when so much has changed.

“Are you sure?” Steve set down his cup of after-dinner coffee. 

“Of course I’m sure,” Bucky said. Of all the conversations to be had at the kitchen table, this wasn’t one he expected. “If I wasn’t, I wouldn’t have brought it up. What I want to know about is you, not me.” 

“Me?” 

“Yes, Steve. You. I want to know how you feel about it. After all, I’m not the only one around here that still needs a little therapy.” 

Steve gave an embarrassed shrug. “Well, it really wasn’t that—” 

“Don’t lie,” Bucky said. “Natasha told me all about it. Makes jumping on a grenade seem perfectly sane.” 

Steve cleared his throat. “I’m working on it.” 

“I know. We both are. So, what do you say?” 

Steve took another drink of coffee, wrapping his hands around the mug. He sat there for a moment, lost in thought, a look of careful consideration on his face. When he finished the coffee, he looked up. “I’m game. I’ve been… well, I’ve missed it. Us. The way things used to be. I want to give it a shot.” 

“You remember the safe word, then?” 

“Of course. Banana. And you’re sure that you’ll use it too if anything feels wrong?” 

Bucky nodded. He made a noise that was somewhere between a laugh and a sigh of relief and went over to the record player on the bookshelf and put on a record. “Dance with me.” He held out his hand as the music began to play. 

Steve smiled and got up from the table. He came into the living room in his bare feet and dusty jeans and an old white tee-shirt, radiant and glowing in the afternoon sunlight that splashed onto the floorboards. He took Bucky’s hand and laughed. “Our song.” 

Bucky winked. “Just a little something to get you in the mood.” 

Steve groaned through his smile. “Geez, Buck, you’re killing me. Give it a rest already. I don’t know who’s worse at this point—you or Shuri.” He slipped his arm around Bucky’s waist, pulling him close.

Bucky stumbled back as they started to dance. “This is a hell of a lot harder backwards,” he said. “I liked it when I was the tall one.” 

“Oh, how the mighty have fallen.” Steve grinned. “Don’t let Natasha hear you say that—she’ll just lecture you about how hard dancing is in heels, and you don’t want to go there, trust me.” 

Bucky raised an eyebrow. 

“Let’s just say that I wasn’t aware that they made heels in my size,” Steve said. 

Bucky laughed. “I can only imagine. Say, you still got those heels? Sure you’d look mighty swell.” 

“I might,” Steve said, pulling Bucky closer until their hips were touching. 

They were fluid together, one cohesive whole. Heat saturated the air and left their skin shimmering in the low lights. It imprinted the smell of sweat onto their bodies. The whole world consisted of heat and motion, everything broken down into its most fundamental parts, distilled into a hunger that hummed deep in their bones. Time was liquid, and they were melting in it. 

Steve glided to a stop as the room went silent, and their pants broke through like radio static. He leaned down, mouth parted, his breath making convection currents of warm air wash against the hollow of Bucky’s neck, but Bucky drew back just out of reach. 

“I’m leading now,” he said.

Steve nodded. He stood waiting at patiently at attention, any dissatisfaction swept away by the anticipation of things to come. He stood ready, willing, completely malleable to Bucky’s touch. 

Bucky swallowed hard. He was white-hot iron being hammered into shape, simultaneously familiar and unfamiliar. There was a sizzling in his blood, and his stomach was tight in red-hot, coiled wires. His nerves were singing at the promise in the air. There was a wanting in him, a hungry, ravenous craving that he couldn’t name and couldn’t resist. The magma in his veins ran deep, untapped and smoldering under the surface of his skin. 

“Bedroom,” Bucky said, and Steve obeyed. 

Bucky closed the door behind them, maybe out of habit. He knew they were completely alone, but he wanted no distractions. He wanted to narrow their world to just the two of them, like it was back in their apartment in Brooklyn. He wanted to shut the world outside and focus on the here, the now. Not the anxieties of the past or the future, but the certainties of the now. This, he could control. 

“Strip,” Bucky said. 

Steve took off his clothes slowly, piece by piece, folding them neatly and stacking them in the corner. Then he stood in the middle of the room while Bucky ran his eyes over every part of him. The broad sweep of his shoulders down the strong wedges of his shoulder blades that tapered into his tight waist. The way the soft, blonde hairs of his legs caught the light, and the taut muscles of his calves. Bucky walked around him, taking in his hard ass and the backs of his thighs, so milky white. He longed to see them pink and glowing and marked. He wanted to mark Steve as his—he wanted to bite that smooth, pale skin and leave lasting marks, suck the bruises up to the surface and set Steve’s ass ablaze with a wildfire flush. 

“Bucky, are you—” 

“Did I say you could speak?” Bucky leaned forward, brushing his lips against Steve’s ear. “Well? Answer me.” 

“No.” Steve’s throat flashed. 

“So you’re disobedient and disrespectful, is that it?” 

“No, sir.” Steve shivered as Bucky bit his ear. 

Bucky strode in front of Steve. “Are you disagreeing with me?” 

Steve glanced downward, somewhere south of Bucky’s eyes. “I-I just wanted to—” 

“You want?” Bucky stepped close. He tilted Steve’s chin towards him. “Look at me. You are mine tonight, and mine only. Do you understand me?” 

“Yes,” Steve whispered. “I’m sorry.”

“You will be.” Bucky let go of him and walked over to the desk. When he turned, Steve thought he saw the ghost of a grin on his lips, something feral that made Steve shiver in anticipation even more than the rough glide of his voice. He pulled out the chair and dropped into it. “Come here.” 

Steve hesitated, then stood in front of Bucky with his hands clasped. 

“Over my lap,” Bucky said. 

Steve obeyed, settling onto Bucky’s thighs with his ass high in the air. He grasped Bucky’s ankle with his hand to steady himself. 

Without warning, Bucky’s hand cracked down in a sharp slap that tinged Steve’s ass pink. Steve sucked in a breath, and his grip on Bucky’s ankle tightened. Another blow across the other cheek made him tense. Bucky continued without pause, each stroke methodical and hard, picking up speed as Steve bit back little surprised noises of pain. He kept going until Steve’s skin was bright red and glowing with warmth. Bucky felt the sting of it on his palm as he rubbed his hand across Steve’s ass. 

“Now, let’s try this again,” Bucky said. “Stand up.” 

Steve obeyed quickly, and let himself be pulled towards the bed. Bucky shoved him onto it, and Steve winced as sunk into the sheets. Bucky straddled him, pinning Steve’s wrists above his head and spreading Steve’s thighs with his knees. 

“Status,” Bucky said. 

“Green,” Steve sighed. “So damn green.” 

Bucky leaned down, his hair tumbling down onto Steve’s chest. He kissed him hard, pressing his tongue into Steve’s mouth and claiming it as his own, sucking at his bottom lip and catching it between his teeth. Steve pressed against him eagerly, and Bucky felt his low, needy moans with his mouth as he sucked bruises onto Steve’s throat. 

Bucky pinned him down harder to the sheets, his bare metal arm glinting in the low light. Steve exhaled sharply as Bucky pushed his knee between Steve’s thighs. Steve’s hands threaded up into Bucky’s hair, tugging him down desperately, and Bucky didn’t have the control to say no as the pain and pleasure splintered through his body, leaving him raw. He pushed he knee up further, and Steve’s breath hitched. Bucky’s mouth was everywhere on Steve’s body, leaving pink crescents on his pale shoulders and the broad planes of his chest and the tapered sides of his hips and the inside of his thighs. Everywhere but where Steve wanted him. 

“Buck—”

“One more word and I stop everything,” Bucky said. 

Steve shuddered as Bucky ran his tongue up the inside of his thighs. He made his way slowly up Steve’s body, feeling him squirm under his mouth. By the time he got to his nipples, his pants were wet as he drew his knee across Steve’s hard, wet cock. Bucky flicked his tongue around Steve’s nipple, and Steve’s whole body tightened. His mouth opened, and a muffled cry came out. Bucky just grinned and continued to lick around it until it was just as hard and tight as everywhere else. Steve cried out as Bucky nipped at it, catching it between his teeth. 

When Bucky moved on to the other nipple, Steve hissed in frustration. He was frantically grinding on Bucky’s knee between his legs with a desperate intensity. Bucky stopped inches from his skin. 

“What did I say?” 

Steve lay still, panting. 

“You are mine, tonight. I am the only one in charge of giving you pleasure… and pain. I know you understood me—I spoke very clearly. And yet you continue to be stubbornly, willfully disobedient.” 

Bucky dipped his head down and bit Steve’s nipple. Steve arched, gasping. 

“I won’t tell you again,” Bucky said. “Do you understand me?” 

Steve nodded, and Bucky got up off the bed. He slid his belt out of his loops, and Steve shivered at the sound. He didn’t dare move. 

“Come here,” Bucky said. “Kneel.” 

Steve knelt at his feet with his blood rushing in his ears. He was tense, waiting, and then he felt the cool leather around his wrists as Bucky fashioned his belt into handcuffs and bound his wrists behind his back. 

“Bend over the bed,” Bucky said. 

Steve obeyed. Bucky waited for what seemed to be an excessively long time. Steve barely heard the slide of fabric against skin over the pounding in his ears. The leather belt was tight around his wrists, but loose enough not to hurt him. He could break it if he wanted, but that wasn’t the point. He watched the shadows wash over the valleys of the twisted sheets and listened to the sound of his own, uneven breathing. 

Finally, Bucky’s hands were on him. He jumped at the coldness of the metal pressed against his ass, gripping him tight. He closed his eyes as Bucky slipped one freezing, metal finger inside of him. Just when the metal began to warm, Bucky took it out and leaned over him. Suddenly, there was fire on his skin, hot and wet and pushing into him relentlessly. Steve cried out at the searing heat of Bucky’s tongue, and before the sensation melted into pleasure, it was gone, and he felt the cold metal of Bucky’s hand working into him again. 

By the time he was loose, every nerve of Steve’s body was raw and tense and waiting. He was almost sobbing with frustration, choking out sounds from behind gritted teeth. Bucky laughed as he put both sticky hands on Steve’s hips. 

“Look at you—falling apart before I’m even in you. Remember—you aren’t allowed to speak.” 

The anticipation and indignation and lust all burst apart as Bucky slid into him, careful and controlled at first, then thrusting with quick, sharp motions, his hands digging into the flesh at Steve’s hips. Steve let out a ragged, tangled sound as Bucky pushed deeper into him, sliding in and out with fluid, powerful thrusts. The last of the light made splinters and fragments of the bedsheets like a chessboard broken into pieces. There was nothing but the heat welding them together, the slippery smooth skin slick with sweat, the feeling of fullness to bursting, and the salty sweet smell that hung heavy in the air. 

Bucky was panting, with bursts of low, raspy sounds breaking from his lips. Steve couldn’t tell if they were groans or broken bits of Russian, but it didn’t matter, not when Bucky’s hips were slamming against his skin, not when his sticky thighs were pressed hard against the back of Steve’s legs. Steve was crying out, he was pure animal noise, white noise in the darkness, a stream of wants and needs and a hunger that hollowed him out inside. 

Bucky cried out his name in harsh sounds that were both familiar and unfamiliar, just like the contour of the metal hand against Steve’s hip. He slowed, pulling out, and Steve let out a shuddering, choking cry. 

“N-no! Buck—more, just a little more!” 

He clamped his mouth shut, but it was too late. Bucky leaned over him, his sweaty hair brushing the back of Steve’s neck. “Did you think I was going to leave you unsatisfied? Did you not trust me? I’m disappointed, Steve. I thought you had more self-control than that.” 

Bucky pulled back, and Steve stayed where he was, panting and shaking. 

“Kneel on the floor. Stay there until I come back. Don’t move.” 

Steve nodded, his tongue thick. He slid down to the wooden floorboards, watching as Bucky headed into the shower. He heard the water run, and as steam fogged the corner of the mirror he could see, Steve began to wonder what Bucky had planned. His thoughts ran in circles, scattering before he could focus. He had gotten punishments before, but this seemed different. Everything was different, but the same, like a sketch on tracing paper just slightly out of line of the sketch below it. 

What did he expect? They were different people now. This was a different time. And yet, it still felt the same in all the ways that counted. Maybe they just needed time to ease into the newness of things, to shape it as their own. And yet, this felt different somehow. 

There was an uncertainty in Steve’s mind, something unreachable, unknowable. There was something wild and unpredictable in Bucky’s eyes, a spark that could turn into a wildfire at any moment. Steve trusted him—of course he did, with his life, with more than that, even. The depths within Bucky left him afraid, trembling, but excited. He wanted to dive down into the darkness, to know, to understand. He wanted to run his hand across all Bucky’s sharp edges, even if they cut him. The thought left him shivering with anticipation. 

Steve heard the shower stop running, but he didn’t hear the footsteps until Bucky came out of the bathroom still toweling off his damp hair. Old habits still there, the ghost of him still clinging to his shadow. Bucky tossed the towel aside and ran his fingers through his hair. He didn’t even glance at Steve—it was like he was just another piece of furniture. He rummaged through his sock drawer, pulling out a sleek, black riding crop and setting it on the wardrobe. Next to it, he set a thick, wicked looking wooden paddle. So that’s what he had been shopping for on the internet. Steve knew he had been up to something. For a moment, Steve wondered what else Bucky had bought. 

“Get up.” Bucky strode over to him, dropping into the chair by the desk. 

Steve obeyed, and he was about to drape over Bucky’s lap, but Bucky stopped him with a look. 

“No. This is going be a punishment, not a reward.” Bucky quickly undid the belt around his wrists. “Sit on my lap.” 

Before Steve could appreciate the new freedom, Bucky pressed against his shoulder blades. 

“Down,” he said. 

Steve lowered himself to the floor, holding himself up by his hands. He hooked his feet around the legs of the chair to anchor himself. His cheeks were spread wide across Bucky’s lap, vulnerable. Exposed. His face flushed, whether from embarrassment or being upside down, he couldn’t tell. 

“Even if you beg for mercy, I won’t stop,” Bucky said. “You need discipline, and you’re going to get it.” 

Steve’s head was buzzing, and his mouth was dry. He tried to remember the safe-word that Bucky had drilled into his head. What was it…? Bumblebee? Bamboo? No, banana. That was it. Banana. 

The blows came measured, calculated, and hard. For a moment, Steve was sure that Bucky was using his metal hand, but he could feel the slap of flesh on flesh. After a while, the position began to be more uncomfortable than the blows. His head was spinning, and his arms were locked in place. Each time he shifted, Bucky gave him a stinging blow that left him gasping. His arms began to tremble. It was ridiculous how Bucky could reduce his muscles to jello—he could lift cars, for Christsakes. He hadn’t had this much trouble in a push-up position since he was a skinny kid just barely making it through basic without collapsing a lung. 

Steve didn’t remember Bucky’s hand being this hard. He whimpered as Bucky kept spanking him harder and faster, faster, faster until Steve’s breaths were quick and shuddering. A part of him felt embarrassed at the sounds coming out of his mouth, but Bucky knew exactly how to drive him to madness. Steve knew that Bucky wouldn’t stop until he was satisfied. It was unfair, he decided, how well Bucky could play him. Besides, pretending to be stoic had never done him any good in the past. If anything, Bucky had always seen it as a challenge, one that Steve had never ended up winning. Bucky was devilishly adept at reducing him to a whimpering, begging mess as efficiently as possible. 

Finally, Bucky stopped. Steve’s arms burned, and his ass was stinging and hot. When he stood up, he felt drunk-dizzy, everything spinning and warm and the air thick around him. The only consolation that he had was that Bucky’s hand was just as red as his ass, and he bet it stung too, but the thought evaporated as Bucky picked up the riding crop from the wardrobe. He gave it a hard swish through the air, and Steve’s bones melted. 

“On the bed,” Bucky said. 

Steve nearly sighed in relief, but there was a sadistic twist to Bucky’s mouth that made him stop short. 

“Raise up your legs,” Bucky said, “and keep them there. If they drop before I reach twenty, I’ll start over. Count them out loud, since you’re always aching to run your mouth.”   
Steve raised his legs in the air, feeling his muscles stretch. He had barely gotten into position before Bucky struck him on the inner thigh. Steve hissed, biting off a swear. “One.”   
The crop slashed down again and again, and soon Steve was having trouble keeping up between his gasps and cries. He closed his eyes and concentrated on keeping his legs straight in the air. Every stroke made him tense, and his legs switched with the urge to curl up, but he kept himself exposed, vulnerable. 

“Open your eyes. I want to see the look on your face,” Bucky said. 

Steve obeyed, lifting his chin up and staring straight at Bucky. Bucky’s eyes were wide, cracked like glazed pottery, a wash of glassy blues that melted into each other. His lips were parted, ravenous. 

“God, you’re beautiful,” Bucky’s voice was rough and deep, and it sent a thrill down Steve that was equal parts fear and awe and lust. “So beautiful, cracked open like this. You make me want to bend you over the bed and fuck you again, right now, fuck you hard until you’re screaming my name.” 

“F-fourteen, fifteen. God, Buck, I can’t—please don’t—sixteen!” The words caught in his mouth, ensnared in all the cries as the riding crop kept slashing mercilessly across his thighs and ass, each blow a brand. 

Bucky paused, adjusted his grip. Steve’s legs were burning, and all he wanted to do was put them down, but he didn’t. He was so close. Bucky kept watching him with an expression he couldn’t read, tapping the crop against his thigh. Bucky waited until his legs were shuddering. 

“Please, please whip me!” Steve said. “Please, just finish!” 

Bucky’s lips curled in a smile. “If you insist.” He swung his arm back, and Steve howled as the crop struck him. 

“Seventeen!” 

“Have you learned your lesson?” 

“Y-yes! Eighteen!” 

“Are you sure?” 

Steve cried out. “Yes, I swear! Nineteen!” 

“I don’t believe you.” Bucky swung the crop wide, lashing it down across Steve’s ass. 

“Twenty,” Steve choked. He sank down into the sheets, wincing at the friction against his skin. His legs trembled. 

“Catch your breath. We’re not done yet. When I come back I want you waiting for me, kneeling.” 

“Yes, sir,” Steve whispered, still sunk into the sheets as Bucky strode out of the room. He laid there, dreamy and dazed and drunk on that sweet, pleasurable pain that made him weak. He kept replaying the way Bucky had looked at him, the hard planes of his face in the low light and the ravenous part of his lips, his glazed-blue eyes eclipsed by dark lashes. How with each touch and blow, Bucky unraveled him like the uncoiling of the universe that burned in his stomach. Steve shivered in the heat, aching for Bucky to come back and finish what he had started.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -Sorry for the hiatus, but this semester's been tough, and finals are upon us. Tune in next Thursday for the next thrilling installment though! 
> 
> -I know, I know -- this chapter is pure porn. Think of it as a teaser for the next chapter. 
> 
> -If you're still reading this, congratulations. You've earned it. 
> 
> -A little hint at what's coming up: Steve still has the heels, and Bucky has definitely bought more than a riding crop.


	25. Broken Memories

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> -Hey, heads up: there's a pretty graphic description of torture in this chapter. Also, some unhealthy dom/sub behaviors in the heat of the moment. 
> 
> -Hopefully I'll have more time to write this over winter break, so I plan to update more frequently for a while. Sorry for not updating on Thursday -- I had this queued up, but totally forgot in the rush of finals. 
> 
> -Also, Happy Holidays everyone! Who knows, maybe I'll put in a Christmas special.

As soon as Steve heard Bucky’s footsteps, he knelt quickly on the floor. The rest had been longer than he had thought it would be, and although his ass was still aching, the thought of what Bucky would do to him next filled him more with anticipation than dread. Steve didn’t dare look as Bucky came into the room. He stared straight ahead until Bucky walked over to him. Bucky crouched down to eye level, and the paddle smoothed over his ass, the wood cool against his stinging skin. 

“Tell me why you’re being punished,” Bucky said, looking him in the eyes.

Steve fought to keep his voice steady. “Because I disobeyed you. Sir.” 

“And?” 

“I don’t know, sir.” 

“Because you’re too stubborn for your own good. You never listen to orders. Instead, you do the first thing that comes into your mind. You’re always the one who needs to be in control, always the one who holds back because you don’t want to let yourself go completely. You never listen, Steve. Years and years of following orders and you never listen to anyone.” 

Steve dipped his head, letting his gaze drift somewhere south. There was a stinging, but this time it was shame. This was playing dirty, and Bucky knew it. 

“Look at me.” Bucky grabbed his chin, tilting it up so that Steve had to look him in the eyes. “You never truly trust anyone but yourself, Steve.” 

“That’s not—”

“Don’t lie to me.” 

Steve shuddered, and the words died on his lips. There was real anger in Bucky’s voice, cool and sharp. It cut him to the core. Steve wished he’d hurry up and just spank him already. His knees hurt from kneeling, like they used to on those long nights of Easter Mass. 

“You need to learn that there are times that you are not in control.” Bucky took a deep breath, and his shoulders relaxed. His face was wiped clean, and a hard look came into his eyes again. 

Steve didn’t know if Bucky felt the change in himself, or if it was just a trick of the light. He suddenly felt smaller, like he was that skinny kid in Brooklyn, and Bucky was telling him off for getting out of bed when he was sick. There was that guilty singing in his veins, that heady rush that came when he always tried to push Bucky too far, tried to make him go through with all his threats and blustering. But this was different. With one look, Steve finally understood that he was not in control. Bucky was unyielding, unmovable, unwavering. All Steve could do now was ride the storm out. There was no sense in yelling at the sky to stop pouring rain. 

“Get on the bed on your hands and knees,” Bucky said. 

Steve got up quickly, and the soft mattress was a relief on his aching knees. 

“Spread your legs wider.” Bucky pushed his thighs apart, then pressed down on his back, making Steve arch his ass higher. “There. Stay like that.” 

The cool wood of the paddle caressed Steve’s still stinging ass. He tried to brace himself, but he still wasn’t quite prepared for the heavy slap of the paddle cracking across his ass.

Bucky let the blow sink in before he swung again. He seemed to know exactly how much force to apply. Just enough to keep Steve at the edge of his tolerance, but not enough to overwhelm him. The paddle may have been the instrument, but Bucky was the one who knew precisely how to push Steve to his breaking point. Bucky made pain into a beautiful art, something to be admired. 

But after a few hard strokes, the pain stopped being abstract and became a tangible, irreversible reality. Bucky was measured, thorough, making sure he felt every perfectly placed blow to the fullest. 

“Status,” Bucky said. 

“Yellow.” Steve closed his eyes, sinking into the pain and allowing it to wash over him. 

Bucky paused, setting the paddle down. “Do you want to stop?” 

“No,” Steve said quickly. “Just need a breather.” He eased back onto his heels carefully, taking deep breathes. Bucky watched him carefully, looking for any signs that things were spinning out of control, but he looked the same as if he had just come back from training with the Okoye and the rest of the Dora Milaje. Steve gave him a watery smile.

“Are you sure you’re good?” Bucky asked. “We don’t have to do everything today.” 

“Yes. I’m good. It feels great, it’s just… so much.” Steve’s chest had stopped heaving, but he was still flushed. “It’s… strange. It’s like everything is flipped now. You’re so strong, so… like me now. I guess I’m still not used to it.” 

“Guess the playing field’s finally evened up,” Bucky said. 

“But don’t you forget—I’m still taller than you.” Steve grinned, and rocked on his heels. 

“That don’t mean nothing when you’re on your knees,” Bucky said. He bent over to kiss Steve on the jaw, on the lips. He brushed his fingers down Steve’s spine, and Steve arched into his touch. 

“I’m ready,” Steve breathed, melting at the heat of Bucky’s lips. He got back on his hands and knees, stretching out before settling into place. He couldn’t resist turning his head to watch the smile on Bucky’s face sharpen, watch his eyes flash like the last hint of sunset before dusk washed in. 

Bucky pulled away, but he didn’t pick up the paddle. He skimmed Steve’s spine with his nails and smoothed his palm across his red ass. He ran his fingers down the pale insides of Steve’s thighs, watching him shiver. Steve jumped as Bucky pressed his mouth against the bone of his hip. Bucky worked his way down, savoring the way Steve sighed as Bucky kissed his ass and the sharp noise of surprise as he grazed it with his teeth. 

By the time Bucky had made his way to Steve’s thighs, Steve was squirming with impatience. Bucky placed a hand on his back and he stilled, but that stop his moans as Bucky sucked at the soft undersides of his thighs, teasing with infinite patience. 

Bucky slapped Steve’s ass, and Steve moaned even louder. When Bucky picked up the paddle and smoothed it across Steve’s flushed skin, he sighed. 

At first the strokes were slow, just enough sting to keep them both from being bored. But the crack of the wood kept getting louder, and Steve’s moans deepened, and a thrill ran through Bucky at the sight of Steve so pliant and willing. And God, there was still that burning in Bucky’s stomach, that hot twist of wires in his gut, that heady heat like a good drink of whiskey. He felt so alive, every nerve sparking, his bones liquid at the sound of Steve’s pants and cries. 

“I’m disappointed in you,” Bucky said lowly. “You’re still that stubborn, willful child that refuses to be sensible.” 

Steve hung his head. There were tears burning in his eyes. He clenched his teeth, but that didn’t keep the cries from spilling out of him, and it didn’t keep the white-hot shame and wanting and longing from sweeping through his blood. 

“You still think you’re the only one who can fix yourself, fix me, fix the world. It doesn’t work like that.” 

The words and the strikes were all the same. His whole body on fire, and he felt the pressure of the paddle molding him, igniting him, imprinting him with the words as Bucky lectured on. 

“Even now, you never accept help. All you accept is pain and punishment, because it eases the guilt gnawing at you still. But you never want to actually see what’s inside yourself. You never let go.” 

“I’m sorry,” Steve cried. “I’m sorry.” 

The paddle kept raining down stinging blows, and all Steve could hear was the crack of it and Bucky’s rough pants. 

“I’m really sorry,” Steve choked. The tears were streaming down his face and dripping onto the sheets. “I’ll obey you I promise—” 

«Заткнись! Я сказал тебя, но ты никогда не слышал. Это для твоего же блага.»

Everything was transposed, doubled. Time was fluid. It was the winter of ’45, it was when Steve was curled on the couch, stomach aching with hunger so bad he was chewing on his pencils as Bucky told him off because he had to come home early to watch that Steve’s fever didn’t rise again, and Steve knew that he shouldn’t be so reckless when every cent mattered. It was their hot bodies melting the snow underneath them, their breathes steaming into the night, it was the Russian that echoed in the night, that bounced off the snow next to the blood splattered bayonets and dead German bodies stripped of their boots, it was Bucky pinning him down on the twin bed, his collar unbuttoned at the throat. It was everything all at once, and Steve was drowning in it all. 

The blows stopped, and there was a clatter as Bucky threw the paddle to the floor. He left Steve there on the bed, legs spread, ass bright red, and strode to the wardrobe. He grabbed the switch that he had cut. There was a haze in Bucky’s brain, a burning in his blood. There was a sour taste in his mouth like old coffee, and something sweet like nectar, so delicious it was driving him mad. There was that aching rush that ripped through him and left him breathless, that sensation that was like holy fire in his veins. 

Steve was splayed out in front of him, so beautiful, so perfect. He looked over his shoulder as Bucky came closer, and the look on his face made Bucky’s knees weak. The redness of his eyes and the red pomegranate seed of his mouth and the silver tracks on his face and his eyes, God, his eyes so bright and glazed with lust and desire and his cheeks bright with shame. That pleading look, that irresistible guilty glance that only priests saw in confessionals. 

Bucky whipped him with the switch, and Steve opened up like a flower blooming, holding nothing back. All screams and sobs and heavy sighs and please, please, please, more of a prayer than anything else. Steve lay completely bare for him, giving him everything. The switch bit into Steve hungrily, leaving angry red lines across the even pink wash of his skin. And God, it was beautiful, Steve was beautiful, so beautiful. 

Steve was whimpering, gasping, crying out his name. Bucky, Bucky, Buck, James, James, James. Bucky whipped him still, faster, faster, wanting to hear those soft, helpless whimpers and the sound of his name on Steve’s tongue. 

The switch was alive in his hand, and the darkness flickered, and he smelled sweat in the hot, claustrophobic air. The sour taste in his mouth grew stronger, bitter like old pennies, and the screams of pleasure sounded more like pain, and the switch left red, raised marks on Steve’s skin. He couldn’t breathe, and there was a pressure in his ears, blood trickling down from his temple, pain drilled into him, sharp words in his throat that weren’t his own. The butt of a whip in his hand, the slick splatter of blood as he flicked it off onto the concrete, the ragged gasps and peeling strips of flesh. The man hanging in front of him, swinging from his bound wrists, feet just barely scraping the floor. The flesh of his back was peeling off in strips, a lattice-work of red, the off-white of bone like stained porcelain peeking out at his shoulder-blade. The screams gone now, faded to nothing, worn away. Nothing but the crack of the whip, the roughness of his own breathing in the blood-thick air. And after, trying to scrub the blood from his boots and off his face and from the lines in his hands and under his nails, trying to wash the scent of slow-dying out of his hair, drown out the screams in scalding shower water. 

Bucky. 

Drowning in hot air, spraying the concrete so the blood washed down the drain, the body wet and too light over his shoulder, trying to scrub the sin from under his skin. 

Bucky, it’s—

Time to go. Time to sleep. Is this what dying feels like, over and over again? 

Time to wake up. Time to kill. Time to eat. 

Please—

I have a daughter. I have three sons. My wife is pregnant. You’re making a mistake. I’ll do anything you want. Not my kids, anything but that. The whip in his hand, heavy, the slick coil of it in his hand, the screams and screams and screams that never stopped. 

It’s me. It’s Steve. You’re—

Nothing but an asset. A disposable tool. 

You don’t—

Exist. You are a ghost. You are nothing. You are a shadow, the power behind an empire, the right hand of the nation. 

Eyes open. Dim light. Focus, move. Lock the door. 

He was on his knees on the cold tile floor in the darkness, retching into the toilet. Where? There was the scent of lavender in the air. A candle on the sink. A small plug in light in the wall socket, bathing everything in a pale silvery glow. A towel hanging on the rack and one thrown on the floor next to damp clothes. His clothes. Civilian clothes, or close to them. 

“Bucky, are you okay? Do you want me to come in?” 

“Stay out!” Bucky shouted. He gagged, heaving more vomit until there was nothing coming out but sharp bile and his chest stopped heaving. 

His knees were stiff and his legs were numb before he stood up clutching the sink, and he slowly unlocked the door. Steve was laying facedown on the bed, still naked, but cleaner. He looked asleep, but the moment Bucky opened the door he saw Steve twitch. Steve moved slowly, barely noticeable, as if he had just woken up. Trying not to startle him. 

“I know you’re awake.” 

In the golden light of the lamp, Steve’s ass shone red with overlapping stripes and welts over faint purple and gray bruises that were already fading. If it had been anyone else, he would have seriously injured them, and it wouldn’t have taken just a night to start healing. 

“Are you okay?” Steve asked quietly. Normally. Too normally. 

“I should be asking you,” Bucky said. 

“Buck, please. It’s nothing. I wanted you to. It’s what we agreed. It was good, so good, I promise. I’m just sorry I couldn’t see—” 

“Don’t. Don’t you dare apologize, Steven Grant Rogers. It was my choice, and mine alone. You couldn’t have known.” 

“You’re right.” Steve looked away, his gaze soft. “It’ll get better.” 

“Yeah.” 

Steve shifted over onto his back, trying not to wince. “Come here.” 

Bucky slid into bed beside him. 

“Can I touch you?” Steve asked. 

“Yes. Yeah.” Bucky felt a knot of anger in his throat, but he swallowed it. 

Steve drew him closer against his chest, just holding him. “Is this okay?” 

Bucky murmured a yes, too tired to tell Steve that he wasn’t made of glass. Right now, he felt like it. He closed his eyes as Steve’s fingers drifted through his hair. There was a pressure in his throat, behind his eyes. 

“Next time,” Bucky promised. “Next time, I’ll be able to give you what you want. I just—I got carried away, swept away. I was in and out and I didn’t really know… I didn’t… I didn’t hurt you, did I?” 

“No,” Steve said. “Trust me, I wouldn’t let you.”

Bucky paused. He didn’t know if he believed Steve. He knew that Steve would allow himself to be hurt rather than to hurt Bucky instead, but he didn’t say it.

“Bucky, please. I’m telling the truth. I’m fine. More than fine. It was good, Buck, it was swell. It was more than I’ve felt in years. Don’t blame yourself for nothing.” 

“I—you, you didn’t get to…” 

“It’s fine,” Steve said. “It doesn’t mean anything next to you. We have forever to spend.” 

Bucky shifted, curling into Steve and resting his forehead against Steve’s chest. He was aware of a shaking in his chest, a tightness that wouldn’t loosen, an unbearable feeling like staring into the sun. 

“S’okay, Buck.” Steve stroked his hair and wrapped an arm around him. “Take as much time as you need. We’ll figure this out soon enough, just take your time.”

His chest was still heaving, and it was only when the tears dripped onto Steve’s skin that Bucky realized he was crying. He was too tired not to, to spent to keep it in. Not when Steve was holding him, running his fingers through his hair, whispering soft and slow in the still heat of the night. Maybe it was time they both let go. As the tears dried into a salt-mask on his face, and the heat of Steve’s skin made him drowsy, Bucky began to feel lighter. He was floating in the night, drifting on the steady hum of cicadas and Steve’s breathing and the rhythm of the rise and fall of his chest that was more familiar to Bucky than his own heartbeat. 

So this was what letting go felt like. It was coming home, home again, home at last.

**Author's Note:**

> \- Hey ya'll, this is my first work, so any comments/feedback are appreciated! 
> 
> -Stay tuned for more weekly updates from yours truly


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